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NAMELESS RIVER 


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f 





RIVER 


BY 

VINGIE E. ROE 

Author of “Tharon of Lost Valley,” “Val of Paradise,” etc. 



NEW YORK 

DUFFIELD AND COMPANY 


1923 






Copyright, 1923, by 
THE McCALL COMPANY 

Copyright, 1923, by 
DUFF1ELD & COMPANY 




Printed in U. 8. A. 


/ p 

AUC 30 '23 v 

C1A752708 '/ 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. “Fight for a Woman? Hell! If 
’twas th’ Horse, Now-” . 

II. The Homestead on Nameless . 

III. The Iron Hand of Sky Line 

IV. The Mystery of Blue Stone Canon 

V. What Nance Found. 

VI. Shadows in the Sheriff’s Glass . 
VII. The Shadows Thicken .... 

VIII. Brand Fair . . . . 

IX. Golden Magic. 

X. The Seventh Sense. 

XI. The Ashes of Hope. 

XII. “Get-out-of-that-Door!” 

XIII. “We’re Our Pappy’s Own—and we 

Belong on Nameless.” . 

XIV. Light on the Sheriff’s Shadows . 

XV. The Flange in Rainbow Cliff . 





VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XVI. The Ancient Miracle . 
XVII. The Face in the Package . 
XVIII. The Fighting Line at Last . 
XIX. Eiders of Portent 
XX. Conclusion .... 


PAGE 

193 

209 

223 

242 

252 


NAMELESS RIVER 


CHAPTER I 

“fight for a woman f hell! if *TWAS th’ 

HORSE NOW-” 

It was Springtime in the Deep Heart country. 
On the broad slopes, the towering slants of the 
hills themselves, the connifers sang their ever¬ 
lasting monotone, tuned by the little winds from 
the south. 

t 

On the flaring fringes of their sweeping skirts 
where the streams ran, maples trembled in the 
airy sun and cottonwoods shook their thousand 
palms of silver. 

Great canons cut the ridges, dark and mys¬ 
terious, murmuring with snow water, painted fan¬ 
tastically in the reds and browns and yellows 
of their weathered stone. Pine trees grew here, 
and pinons, hemlock and spruce, all the dark and 
sombre people of the forest, majestic and aloof. 

But in the sweet valleys that ran like play¬ 
ful Angers all ways among the hills, where lay 
tender grass of a laughing brightness, flowers 

nodded thick in the drowsy meadows. It was 

1 



2 


NAMELESS RIVER 


a lonesome land, set far from civilization, but 
beautiful witbal, serene, silent, wild with crag 
and peak and precipice. Deer browsed in its 
sheltered places, a few timber wolves preyed on 
them, while here and there a panther screamed 
to the stars at night. 

For many years a pair of golden eagles had 
reared their young on the beetling escarpment 
that crowned Mystery Ridge. 

It was a rich land, too, for many cattle ran 
on its timbered slants and grew sleek and fat 
for fall along the reaches of the river. 

On a day when all the world seemed basking 
in the tempered sun, a horse and rider came 
down along the slopes heading toward the west. 
On the broad background of this primeval set¬ 
ting they made a striking picture, one to arrest 
the eye, for both were remarkable. Of the two, 
perhaps the horse would first have caught tne 
attention of an observer, owing to its great 
stature and its shining mouse-blue coat. 

Far off, also, the prideful grace of its car¬ 
riage, the lightness, the arrogance of its step, 
would have been noticeable. But as they drew 
near, one looked instinctively to see what man¬ 
ner of rider bestrode so splendid a fellow, and 
was not disappointed—for the rider was a 
woman. 

She was a gallant woman, if one could so de¬ 
scribe her, not large but built with such nicety 


3 


“IF ’TWAS TH’ HORSE NOW_” 

of line, of proportion, as best to show off the 
spirit in her and that was a thing which might 
not be described. Under her sombrero, worn 
low on her brow and level, one got the seeming 
of darkness shot with fire—the black eyes and 
bit of dusky hair above cheeks brightly flushed. 
She rode at ease, her gauntleted hands clasped 
on her pommel, her reins swinging. A blue 
flannel shirt, gay with pearl buttons, lay open at 
the throat and bloused a trifle above a broad 
leather belt, well worn and studded with nickel 
spots. A divided skirt of dark leather, precisely 
fitted and deeply fringed at the bottom, con¬ 
cealed tne tops of high laced boots. All her 
clothing betokened especial make, and very 
thorough wear. 

As the blue horse sidled expertly down the 
slope a loose stone turned under his shod hoof, 
causing him to stumble ever so slightly, though 
he caught himself instantly. 

As instantly the woman’s spurred heel struck 
his flank, her swift tightening of the rein antici¬ 
pated his resultant start. 

“Pick up your feet, you!” she said sharply, 
frowning. 

The stallion did pick up his feet, for he was 
intelligent, but he shook his proud head, laid his 
ears back on his neck, and the sweat started on 
his sensitive skin at the needless rake of the spur. 
The great dark eyes in his grey-blue face shone 



4 


NAMELESS RIVER 


for a time like fox-fire in the dark, twin sparks 
beneath the light of his tossing silver forelock. 

He choose his footing more carefully, though 
he was an artist in hill climbing at all times, for 
,the woman on his back was a hard task-master. 
Caught as a colt in the high meadows of the 
Upper Country beyond the Deep Heart hills, the 
horse had served her faithfully for four of his 
seven years of life, and hated her sullenly. 
There was mixed blood in his veins—wild, from 
the slim white mother who had never felt a rope, 
patrician, gentle, tractable, from the thorough¬ 
bred black father lost from a horse-trader’s 
string eleven years back and sought for many 
bootless moons because of his great value. 

Swayed by the instincts of these two strains 
the superb animal obeyed this woman who was 
unquestionably his master, though rebellion 
surged in him at every chastisement. 

The sun was at the zenith, marking the time 
of short shadows, and its light fell in pale 
golden washes over the tapestried green slopes. 
Tall flowers nodded on slim stalks in nook and 
crevasse—frail columbine and flaming bleeding 
hearts—and mosses crept in the damp places. 

For an hour the two came down along the 
breast of a ridge, dropping slowly in a long 
diagonal, and presently came out on a bold 
shoulder that jutted from the parent spine. 
Here, with the thinning trees falling abruptly 


5 


“IF ’TWAS TH’ HORSE NOW 

away, a magnificent view spread out below. For 
a long time there had been in the rider’s ears 
a low and heavy murmur, a ceaseless sound of 
power. Now its source was visible—the river 
that wound between wide meadows spread like 
flaring flounces on either side—broad, level, 
green stretches that looked rich as a king’s 
lands, and were. 

The woman reined up her horse and sitting 
sidewise looked down with moody eyes. A 
frown drew close the dark brows under the hat 
brim, the full sensuous lips hardened into a 
tight line. 

Hatred flamed in her passionate face, for the 
smiling valley was tenanted. At the far edge of 
the green floor across the river there nestled 
against the hills that rose abruptly the small log 
buildings of a homestead. There was a cabin, 
squarely built and neat, a stable, a shed or two, 
and stout corrals, built after the fashion of a 
stockade, their close-set upright saplings gleam¬ 
ing faintly in the light. 

And on the green carpet a long brown line 
lay stretched from end to end, straight as a 
plumb-line, attesting to the accuracy of the eye 
that drew it. A team of big bay horses even 
now plodded along that line, leaving behind them 
a tiny addition in the form of a flange of new 
turned earth, the resistless effect of the conquer¬ 
ing plow. 



6 


NAMELESS RIVER 


The plow, hated of all those who follow the 
fringe of the 'wilderness, savage, trapper, and 
cattleman. 

In the furrow behind walked the owner of the 
accurate eyes—deep, wide, blue eyes they were, 
set beautifully apart under calm brows of a 
golden bronze which matched exactly the thick 
lashes and the heavy rope of hair braided and 
pinned around the head hidden in an old-fash¬ 
ioned sunbonnet—for this only other figure in 
the primeval picture was a woman also. She 
was young by the grace of the upright carriage, 
strong by the way she handled her plow, con¬ 
fident in every movement, every action. She 
stood almost as tall as the average man, and she 
walked with the free swing of one. 

For a long time the rider on the high shoulder 
of the ridge sat regarding these tiny plodders 
in the valley. 

Then she deliberately took from its straps the 
rifle that hung on her saddle, lifted it to her 
shoulder, took slow aim and fired. It was a 
high-power gun, capable of carrying much far¬ 
ther than this point of aim, and its bullet spat 
whiningly into the earth so near the moving 
team that one of the horses jumped and 
squatted. 

The woman lowered the gun and watched. 

But the upright figure plodding in its furrow 
never so much as turned its head. It merely 


7 


“IF ’TWAS TH’ HORSE NOW 

pulled the lines buckled about its waist, thereby 
steadying the frightened horse back to its busi¬ 
ness, and crept ahead at its plowing. 

‘ ‘ Damn! 7 ’ said the woman. 

She laid the rifle across her pommel, reined 
the blue stallion sharply away and went on her 
interrupted journey. 

Two hours later she rode into the shady, 
crooked lane that passed for a street in Cor¬ 
dova, Composed of a general store, a black¬ 
smith-shop, a few ancient cabins, the isolated 
trading point called itself a town. McKane of 
the store did four-ply business and fancied him¬ 
self exceedingly. 

As the woman came cantering down the street 
between the cabins he ceased whittling on the 
splinter in his hands and watched her. She 
was well worth watching, too, for she was 
straight as an Indian and she rode like one. 
Of the half dozen men lounging on the store 
porch in the drowsy afternoon, not one but gazed 
at her with covetous eyes. 

A light grew up in McKane’s keen face, a 
satisfaction, an appreciation, a recognition of 
excellence. 

“By George !” he said softly. “Boys, I don’t 
know which is the most worth while—the half- 
breed Bluefire or Kate Cathrew on his back!” 

“I’ll take the woman,” said a lean youth in 



8 


NAMELESS RIVER 


worn leather, his starved young face attesting to 
the womanless wilderness of the Upper County 
from whence he hailed. “Yea, Lord—I’ll take 
the woman.” 

“You mean you would,” said McKane, smil¬ 
ing, “if you could. Many a man has tried it, 
hut Kate rides alone. Yes, and rules her king¬ 
dom with an iron hand—that’s wrong—it’s 
steel, and Toledo steel at that, tempered fine. 
And merciless.” 

“You seem to know th’ lady pretty well.” 

“All Nameless River knows her,” said the 

tradeT, lowering his voice as she drew near, 
« * 

“and the Deep Hearts, too, as far as cattle run.” 

“Take an’ keep yer woman—if ye can—” 
put in a bearded man of fifty who sat against a 
post, his booted feet stretched along the floor, 
“but give me th’ horse. I’ve loved him ever 
sence I first laid eyes on him' two years back. 

“He’s more than a horse—he’s got brains 
behind them speakin’ eyes, soft an’ black when 
he’s peaceful, but burnin’ like coals when he’s 
mad. I’ve seen him mad, an’ itched to own 
him then. Kate’s a brute to him—don’t under¬ 
stand him, an’ don’t want to.” 

McKane dropped his chair forward and rose 
quickly to his feet as the woman cantered up. 

“Hello, Kate,” he said, as she sat a moment 
regarding the group, “how’s the world at Sky 
Line Ranch?” 


“IF ’TWAS TH-'HORSE NOW 


i 

— ' 


9 


“All there,” she said shortlv, or was when 
I left.” 

She swung out of her saddle and flung her 
reins to the ground. She pulled off her gloves 
and pushed the hat back from her forehead, 
which showed sweated white above the tan of 
her face. She passed into the store with 
McKane, the spurs rattling on her booted heels. 

Left alone the big, blue stallion turned his 
alert head and looked at the men on the porch, 
drawing a deep breath and rolling the wheel in 
his half-breed bit. 

It was as the bearded man had said—intelli¬ 
gence in a marked degree looked out of the 
starry eyes in the blue face. That individual 
reached out a covetous hand, but the horse did 
not move. He knew his business too well as 
Kate Cathrew’s servant. 

Inside the store the woman took two letters 
which McKane gave her from the dingy pigeon¬ 
holes that did duty as post office, read them, 
frowned and put them in the pocket of her 
leather riding skirt. Then she selected a few 
things from the shelves which she stowed in a 
flour-sack and was ready to go. McKane fol¬ 
lowed her close, his eyes searching her face with 
ill-concealed desire. She did not notice the men 
on the porch, who regarded her frankly, but 
passed out among them as though they were not 
there. It was this cool insolence which cleared 



10 


NAMELESS RIVER 


the path before her wherever she appeared, as 
if all observers, feeling the inferiority her dis¬ 
dain implied, acknowledged it. 

But as she descended the five or six steps that 
led down from the porch, she came face to face 
with a newcomer, one who neither gaped nor 
shifted back, but looked her square in the face. 

This was a man of some thirty-four or five, 
big, brawny, lean and fit, of a rather homely 
countenance lighted by grey eyes that read his 
kind like print. 

He looked like a cattleman save for one thing 
—the silver star pinned to the left breast of his 
fiannel shirt, for this was Sheriff Price Selwood. 

“Good day, Kate,” he said. 

A red flush rose in the woman’s face, but it 
was not set there by any liking for the speaker 
who accosted her, that was plain. 

“It’s never a good day when I meet you,” she 
said evenly, “it’s a bad one.” 

The Sheriff smiled. 

“That’s good,” he answered, “but some day 
I’ll make it better.” 

McKane, his own face flushed with sudden 
anger, stepped close. 

“Price,” he said thinly, “you and I’ve been 
pretty fair friends, but when you talk to Miss 
Cathrew like that, you’ve got me to settle with. 
That sounded like a threat.” 

“Did it?” said Selwood. “It was.” 


11 


“IF ’TWAS TH’ HORSE NOW— 

The trader was as good as his word. 

With the last syllable his fist shot out and 
took the speaker in the jaw, a clean stroke, timed 
a half-second sooner than the other had ex¬ 
pected, though he had expected it. It snapped 
his head back on his shoulders, but did not make 
him stagger, and the next moment he had met 
McKane half-way with all the force of his two 
hundred pounds of bone and muscle. 

In the midst of the whirlwind fight that fol¬ 
lowed, Kate Cathrew, having pulled on her 
gloves and coolly tied her sack in place on her 
saddle, mounted Bluefire and rode away without 
a backward look. 

Twenty minutes later the Sheriff picked up 
the trader and rolled him up on the porch. He 
stood panting himself, one hand on the worn 
planking, the other wiping the blood and dirt 
from his face. 

“Get some water, boys,” he said quietly, “and 
when he comes around tell him I’ll be back to¬ 
morrow for my coffee and tobacco—five pounds 
of each—and anything more he wants to give 
me.” 

He picked up his wide hat, brushed it with his 
tom sleeve, set it back on his head precisely, 
walked to his own horse, which was tied some 
distance away, mounted and rode south toward 
the more open country where his own ranch lay. 

“I’m damned!” said the bearded man softly, 



NAMELESS RIVER 


12 

“it didn’t take her long to stir up somethin’ on 
a peaceful day! If it’d ben over Bluefire, now— 
there’s somethin’ to fight for—but a woman; 
Hell!” 

4 4 But—Glory—Glory! ’ ’ whispered the lean 
boy who had watched Kate hungrily, u ain’t she 
worth it! Oh, just ain’t she! Wisht I was 
McKane this minute!” 

“Druther be th’ Sheriff,” said the other enig¬ 
matically. 


CHAPTER II 


THE HOMESTEAD ON NAMELESS 

When the sun dropped over the western ridge, 
the girl in the deep sunbonnet unhitched her 
horses from the plow. She looped her lines on 
the hames, rubbed each sweated bay head a 
moment, carefully cleaned her share with a small 
wooden paddle which she took from a pocket in 
her calico skirt, and tipped the implement over, 
share-face down. 

Then she untied the slatted bonnet and took 
it off, carrying it in her hand as she swung away 
with her team at her heels, and the change was 
marvelous. Where had been a somewhat mas¬ 
culine figure, plodding at man’s work a few 
moments before, was now a young goddess strid¬ 
ing the virgin earth. 

The rose glow of coming twilight in the 
mountains bathed the stern slants with magic, 
fell on her bronze head like ethereal dust of 
gems. All in a moment she had become beauti¬ 
ful. The golden shade of her smooth skin was 
but a tint above that of her hair and brows and 
lashes, a blend to delight an artist, so rare was 
it—though her mother said they were “all off 

13 


14 


NAMELESS RIVER 


the same piece.’’ There was red in her make¬ 
up, too, faint, thinned, beneath the light tan of 
her cheeks, flaming forth brightly in the even 
line of her full lips. 

Out of this flare of noonday color her blue 
eyes shone like calm waters under summer skies. 
Some of the men of the country had seen John 
Allison’s daughter, but not one of them would 
have told you she was handsome—for not one 
of them had seen her without the disfiguring 
shelter of the bonnet. She went with the weary 
horses to the edge of the river, flat here in the 
broad meadows, and stood between them as they 
drank. 

She raised her head and looked across the 
swift water-stream to the high shoulder of the 
distant ridge, but there was no fear in the calm 
depths of her eyes. She stood so, quiet, tired, 
at ease, until the horses had drunk their fill and 
with windy breaths of satisfaction were ready 
to go on across the flat to the stable and corral. 

Here she left them in the hands of a boy of 
seventeen, very much after her own type, but 
who walked with a hopeless halt, and went on 
to the cabin. 

“Hello, Mammy,” she said, smiling—and if 
she had been beautiful before she was exquisite 
when she smiled, for the red lips curled up at 
the corners and the blue eyes narrowed to 
drowsy slits of sweetness 


THE HOMESTEAD ON NAMELESS 15 


But there was no answering smile on the gaunt 
face of the big woman who met her at the door 
with work-hardened hands laid anxiously on her 
young shoulders. 

“Nance, girl,” she said straightly, “I heard 
a shot this afternoon—I reckon it whistled some 
out there in th’ field!” 

“It did,” said Nance honestly, “so close it 
made Dan squat.” 

In spite of her courage the woman paled a 
hit. 

“My Lord A’mighty!” she said distressedly, 
“I do wish your Pappy had stayed in Missouri! 
I make no doubt he’d been livin’ today—and I’d 
not be eating my heart out with longin’ for him, 
sorrow over Bud, an’ fear for you every time 
you’re out of my sight. And th’ land ain’t 
worth it.” 

But Nance Allison laid her hand over her 
mother’s and turned in the doorway to look once 
again at the red and purple veils of dusk-haze 
falling down the mountain’s face, to listen to the 
song of Nameless River, hurrying down from 
the mysterious canons of the Deep Heart hills, 
and a sort of adoring awe irradiated her fea¬ 
tures. 

“Worth it?” she repeated slowly. “No—not 
Papp’s death—not Bud’s lameness—but worth 
every lick of work I ever can do, worth every 
glorious hour I spend on it, worth every bluff I 


16 


NAMELESS RIVER 


call, every sneak-thief enemy I defy—and somjc 
day it will be worth a mint of gold when the 
cattle grow to herds. And in the meantime it’s 
—why, Mammy, it’s the anteroom of Heaven, 
the fringes of paradise, right here in Nameless 
Valley.” 

The mother sighed. 

“You love it a lot, don’t you!” she asked 
plaintively. 

‘ 1 I think it’s more than love, ’ ’ said the big girl 
slowly as she rolled her faded sleeves higher 
along her golden arms preparatory to washing 
at the well in the yard, “I think it’s principle— 
a proving of myself—I think it’s a front line in 
the battle of life—and I believe I’m a mighty 
fighter-. ’ ’ 

“I know you are,” said the woman with con¬ 
viction, faintly tinged with pride, “but—there’ll 
be few cattle left for herds if things go on the 
way they have gone. Perhaps there’ll be neither 
herds nor herders-” 

But her daughter interrupted. 

“There’ll be a fight, at any rate,” she said as 
she plunged her face, man fashion, into the basin 
filled with water from the bucket which she had 
lifted, hand over hand—“there’ll be a fight to 
the finish when I start—and some day I’m afraid 
I’ll start.” 

She looked at her mother with a shade of 
trouble on her frank face. 




THE HOMESTEAD ON NAMELESS 17 


"For two years,’’ she added, "I’ve been turn- 
ing the other cheek to my enemies. I haven’t 
passed that stage, yet. I’m still patient—but I 
feel stirrings.” 

"God forbid!” said the older woman sol¬ 
emnly, "it sounds like feud!” 

"Will be,” returned the girl shortly, "though 
I pray against it night and day.” 

The boy Bud came up from the stable along 
the path, and Nance stood watching him. There 
was but one thing in Nameless Valley that 
could harden her sweet mouth, could break up 
the habitual calm of her eyes. This was her 
brother, Bud. 

When she regarded him, as she did now, there 
was always a flash of flame in her face, a wimple 
of anguish passing on her features, an explosion, 
as it were, of some deep and surging passion, 
covered in, hidden, like molten lava in some 
half-dead crater, its dull surface cracking here 
and there with seams of awful light which 
drew together swiftly. Now for the moment the 
little play went on in her face. 

Then she smiled, for he was near. 

"Hello, Kid,” she said, "how’s all?” 

The boy smiled back and he was like her as 
two peas are like each other—the same golden 
skin, the same mouth, the same blue eyes crink¬ 
ling at the corners. 

But there the likeness ended, for where Nance 


18 


NAMELESS RIVER 


was a delight to the eye in her physical perfec¬ 
tion, the boy hung lopsided, his left shoulder 
drooping, his left leg grotesquely bandied. 

But the joy of life was in him as it was in 
Nance, despite his misfortune. 

“Whew!” he said, “it’s gettin’ warm a-ready. 
Pretty near melted working in th’ garden to¬ 
day. Got three beds ready. Earth works up 
fine as sand.” 

“So it does in the field,” said Nance as she fol¬ 
lowed the mJother into the cabin, “it’s like 
mould and ashes and all the good things of the 
land worked in together. It smells as fresh as 
they say the sea winds smell. Each time I work 
it, it seems wilder and sweeter—old lady earth 
sending out her alluring promise.” 

“Land sakes, girl,” said Mrs. Allison, “where 
do you get such fancies!” 

“Where do you suppose?” said Nance, “out 
of the earth herself. She tells me a-many things 
here on Nameless—such as the value of patience, 
an’ how to be strong in adversity. I’ve never 
had the schools, not since those long-back days 
in Missouri, but I’ve got my Bible and I’ve got 
the land. And I’ve got the sky and the hills and 
the river, too. If a body can’t learn from them 
he’s poor stuff inside. Mighty poor.” 

She tidied her hair before the tiny mirror that 
hung on the kitchen wall, a small matter of 
passing her hands over the shining mass, for the 


THE HOMESTEAD ON NAMELESS 19 


braids were smooth, almost as they had been 
when she pinned them there before sun-up, and 
rolling down her sleeves, sat down to the table 
where a simple meal was steaming. She bowed 
her head and Mrs. Allison, her lean face gaunt 
with shadows of fear and apprehension, folded 
her hard hands and asked the customary bless¬ 
ing of that humble house. 

Humble it was in every particular—of its 
scant furnishings, of its bare cleanliness which 
was its only adornment, of the plain food on the 
scoured, clothless table. 

These folk who lived in it were humble, too, 
if one judged only by their toil-scarred hands, 
their weary faces. 

But under the plain exterior there was some¬ 
thing which set them apart, which defied the 
stamp of commonplace, which bid for the extra¬ 
ordinary. 

This was the dominant presence of purpose 
in the two younger faces, the spirit of patient 
courage which shone naked from the two pairs 
of blue eyes. 

The mother had less of it. 

She was like a. war-mother of old—waiting 
always with a set mouth and eyes scanning the 
distances for tragedy. 

That living spirit of stubborn courage had 
come out of the heart and soul of John Allison, 
latter day pioneer, who for two years had slept 


20 


NAMELESS RIVER 


in a low, neat bed at the mountain’s foot beyond 
the cabin, his end one of the mysteries of the 
wild land he had loved. His wife had never 
ceased to fret for its unravelling’, to know the 
how and wherefore of his fall down Rainbow 
Cliff—he, the mountaineer, the sure, the un¬ 
chancing. His daughter and son had accepted it, 
laid it aside for the future to deal with, and 
taken up the work which he had dropped—the 
plow, the rope and the cattle brand. 

It was heavy work for young hands, young 
brains. 

The great meadow on the other side of Name¬ 
less was rich in wild grass, a priceless posses¬ 
sion. For five years it had produced abundant 
stacks to feed the cattle over, and the cutting 
and stacking was work that taxed the two to the 
very limit of endurance. And the corn-land at 
the west—that, too, took labor fit for man’s 
muscles. But there were the hogs that ran wild 
and made such quick fattening on the golden 
grain in the early fall. It was the hogs that 
paid most of the year’s debt at the trading 
store, providing the bare necessities of life, and 
Nance could not give up that revenue, work or no 
work. Heaven knew, she needed them this year 
more than ever—since the fire which had flared 
in a night the previous harvest and taken all 
three of the stacks in the big meadow. That 


THE HOMESTEAD ON NAMELESS 21 


had been disaster, indeed, for it had forced her 
to sell every head of her stock that she could, 
at lowest prices, leaving barely enough to get 
another start. McKane had bought, but he had 
driven a hard bargain. 

This was another spring and hope stirred in 
her, as it is ever prone to do in the heart of 
youth. 

Tired as she was, the girl brought forth from 
the ancient bureau in her own room beyond, a 
worn old Bible, and placing it beneath the lamp, 
sat herself down beside the table to the study of 
that Great Book which was her classic and her 
school. Mrs. Allison had retired into the depths 
of the cabin, from the small room adjoining, 
Nance could hear the regular breathing of Bud, 
weary from his labors. For a long time she sat 
still, her hands lying cupped around the Book, 
her face pensive with weariness, her eyes fixed 
unwinking on the yellow flame. Then she turned 
the thin pages with a reverent hand and at the 
honeysweet rhythms of the Psalms, stopped and 
began to read. 

With David she wandered afar into fields of 
divine asphodel, was soon lost in a sea of 
spiritual praise and song. 

Her young head, haloed with a golden spray 
in the light of the lamp, was bent above the 
Bible, her lashes lay like golden circles, spark- 


NAMELESS RIVER 


22 

ling on her cheeks, her lips were sweetly 
moulded to the words she unconsciously formed 
as she read. 

For a long time she pored over the ancient 
treasure of the Scriptures, and in all truth she 
was innocent enough, lovely enough to have 
stirred a heart of stone. It was warm with 
the breath of spring outside. Window and door 
stood open and no breeze stirred the cheap white 
curtain at the sill. 

Peace was there in the lone homestead by the 
river, the security that comes with knowledge 
that all is looked to faithfully. Nance knew that 
the two huge padlocks on the stout log barn that 
housed the horses and the two milk cows, were 
duly fastened, for their keys hung on the wall 
beside the towel-roller. She knew that the well- 
board was down, that the box was filled with 
wood for the early breakfast fire. 

“ ‘In Thee, Oh, Lord, do I put my trust/ ” 
she read in silence. “ ‘Let me never be ashamed, 
deliver me in Thy righteousness-’ ” 

She laid her temples in her palms, her elbows 
on the table, and her blue eyes followed the 
printed lines with a rapt delight. 

Suddenly she sat upright, alert, her face lifted 
like that of a startled creature of the wild. She 
had heard no sound. There had been no tremor 
of the earth to betray a step outside, and yet she 
felt a presence. 



THE HOMESTEAD ON NAMELESS 23 


She did not look toward the openings, hut 
stared at the wall before her with its rows of 
shelves behind their screened doors where her 
mother kept her scoured pans. 

And then, suddenly, there came a thin, keen 
whine, a little clear whistle, and a knife stood 
quivering between her dropped hands, its point 
imbedded deep in the leaves of the old Bible. 

For a. moment she sat so, while a flush of 
anger poured up along her throat to flare to the 
roots of her banded hair. 

With no uncertain hand she jerked the blade 
from the profound pages, leapt to her feet, 
snatched a stub of pencil from a broken mug on 
a shelf, tore a fly-leaf from the precious Book, 
and, bending in the light, wrote something on 
it. She folded the bit of paper, thrust the knife 
point through it and, turning swiftly, flung them 
viciously through the window where the thin 
curtain had been parted. 

She stood so, facing the window defiantly, 
scorning to blow out the light. 

Then she dropped her eyes to the desecrated 
Word and they were flaming—and this is what 
she had written on the fly-leaf: 

“The Lord is the strength of my life—of 
whom shall I be afraid! Thought an host shall 
encamp against me, my heart shall not fear.” 

Very deliberately she closed the door and 
window, turned locks on both, picked up her 


24 


NAMELESS RIVER 


lamp and Bible and went into her own room 
beyond. Serene in the abiding faith of those 
divine words she soon forgot the world and all 
it held of work and care, of veiled threat and 
menace. 

At daybreak she opened the window and 
scanned the ground outside. There was no thin- 
bladed knife in sight, no folded bit of paper with 
its holy defiance. The whole thing might have 
been a dream. 


CHAPTER III 


THE IRON HAND OF SKY LINE 

Kate Cathrew —Cattle Kate Cathrew—lived 
like an eagle, on the crest of the world looking 
down. She looked down along the steep slopes 
of Mystery Ridge, dark with the everlasting 
green of connifers, speckled with the lighter 
green of glade and brush patch, the weathered 
red of outcropping stone—far down to the 
silver thread of Nameless River flowing between 
its grass-clad banks, the fair spread of the 
valley with its priceless feeding land. 

The buildings of Sky Line Ranch lay nestled at 
the foot of Rainbow Cliff, compact, solid, like a 
fortress, reached only by cattle trails, for there 
was no wagon road. There could have been 
none on these forbidding steeps. The buildings 
themselves were built of logs, but all that was 
within them had come into the lonesome country 
on pack-mules, even to the big steel range in the 
kitchen. The house itself was an amazing place, 
packed with all necessities, beautiful with luxu¬ 
ries, its contents worth a fortune. It had many 
rooms and a broad veranda circled it. Pine 
trees stood in ranks about it, and out of the 

25 


26 


NAMELESS RIVER 


sheer face of Rainbow Cliff at the back a six- 
inch stream of crystal water shot forth in a 
graceful arc from the height of a man’s shoul¬ 
der, to fall into a natural basin in the solid rock 
by its own ceaseless action. 

And stretching out like widespread wings on 
either side this majestic cliff ran crowning the 
ridge for seven miles, a splendid escarpment, 
straight up-and-down, averaging two hundred 
feet from its base in the slanting earth to the 
sharp line of its rim-rock. 

Rainbow Cliff, grim guardian of the Upper 
Country and the Deep Heart hills themselves, 
supposed to be impassable in all its length, dark 
in the early day but gleaming afar with all the 
colors of the spectrum when the sun dropped 
over toward the west at noon. It was this gor¬ 
geous radiance, caused by the many shades of 
the weathered stone, which had given the battle¬ 
ment its name. No man was ever known to have 
scaled the cliff—save and except John Allison, 
found dead at its foot two years back—for the 
giant spine was alike on both sides. Men from 
the Upper Country had penetrated the Deep 
Hearts to its northern base, but there they had 
stopped, to circle its distant ends, void of the 
secrets they had hoped to wrest from it. 

And Kate Cathrew lived under it, a strange, 
half-sybaritic woman, running her cattle on the 
slopes of Mystery, riding after them 1 like any 


THE IRON HAND OF SKY LINE 


n 


man, standing in at round-up, branding, beef¬ 
gathering, her keen eyes missing nothing, her 
methods high-handed. Her riders obeyed her 
lightest word, though they were mostly of a 
type that few men would care to handle, hard- 
featured, close-lipped, sharp-eyed, hard riders 
and hard drinkers, as all the world of the Deep 
Hearts knew. 

Once in a blue moon they went to Bement, the 
town that lay three days’ ride to the north be¬ 
yond the hills, and what they did there was 
merely hinted at. They drank and played and 
took possession of its four saloons, and when 
they finally reared out of it to go back to their 
loneliness and work, the town came out of its 
temporary retirement, breathing again. 

Yet Kate Cathrew handled these men and got 
good work out of them, and she belonged to none 
of them. 

Not but what there were hot hearts in the 
outfit and hands that itched for her, lips that wet 
themselves hungrily when she passed close in 
her supreme indifference. 

But Rio Charley carried a bullet-scar in his 
right shoulder, and Big Basford walked with a 
slight limp—yet they both stayed with her. 

“Sort of secret-society stuff,” said Price Sel- 
wood once, “Kate is the Grand Vizier.” 

There was no other white woman at Sky Line. 
She would have none. Minnie Pine, a stalwart 


28 


NAMELESS RIVER 


young Pomo half-breed, and old Josefa, brown 
as parchment and non-committal, carried on the 
housework under her supervision, and no one 
else was needed. 

At noon of the day after Kate’s visit to the 
store at Cordova, she sat in the big living-room 
at Sky Line looking over accounts. An observer 
having seen her on the previous occasion, would 
hardly have recognized her now. Gone were the 
broad hat, the pearl-buttoned shirt, the fringed 
riding skirt and the boots. 

The black hair was piled high on her head, 
its smooth backward sweep crinkled by the tight 
curl that wrnuld not be brushed out. There was 
fragrance about her, and the dress she wore was 
of dark blue flowered silk, its clever draping 
setting off her form to its best advantage, which 
needed no advantage. Silk stockings smoothed 
themselves lovingly over her slender ankles, and 
soft kid slippers, all vanity of cut and make and 
sparkling buckle, clothed her feet in beauty. 

She was either a fool or very brave, for she 
was the living spirit of seduction. 

But the sombre eyes she turned up from her 
work to scan the rider who came to her, his hat 
in his hands, were all business, impersonal. 

“Well?” she said impatiently. 

The man was young, scarce more than a boy, 
of a devil-may-care type, and he looked at her 
fearlessly. 


THE IRON HAND OF SKY LINE 


29 


“Here’s something for you, Boss,” he said 
grinning, as he handed her a soiled bit of paper. 

It was thin, yellowed with age, and it seemed 
to have been roughly handled. 

The mistress of Sky Line spread it out before 
her on the top of the dark wood desk. 

“The Lord is the strength of my 
life,” she read, “of whom shall I be 
afraid? Though an host shall encamp 
against me, my heart shall not fear.” 

It was unsigned and the characters, while hur¬ 
riedly scrawled, were made by bold strokes, as 
if a strong heart had, indeed, inspired them, a 
strong hand penned them. 

With a full-mouthed oath Kate Cathrew 
crumpled the bit of paper in her hand and flung 
it in the waste-basket against the wall. 

“How did you get that?” she demanded. 

“On the point of the knife you sent th’ girl,” 
he answered soberly, “an’ right near the middle 
of my stomach.” 

For a considerable space of time the woman 
sat regarding him. “I sent you to help in the 
breaking of morale,” she said coldly, “not to 
bring me back defiance. Next time I’ll send a 

more trustworthy man.” 

She nodded dismissal, and the youth went 

quickly, his face burning. 

At the far end of the veranda he almost ran 
into Big Basford, whose huge, gorilla-like shape 


30 


NAMELESS RIVER 


was made more sinister and repellant by tbe 
perceptible limp. Basford was always some¬ 
where near, if possible, when men talked with 
Kate Cathrew. 

His great strength and stature, his small eyes, 
black and rimmed with red, his unkempt head 
and flaring black beard, everything about him 
suggested a savagery and power with which few 
men cared to trifle. 

He scanned the boy’s flushed face with swift 
appraising. 

“I take it,” he said grinning, “that the boss 
wasn’t pleased with you?” 

“Take it or leave it,” said the other with 
foolhardy daring, “is it any of your business?” 

With a smothered roar Big Basford leaped 
for him, surprisingly nimble on his lamed foot, 
surprisingly light. 

He caught him by the throat and bore' him 
backward across the veranda’s edge, so that 
both bodies fell heavily on the boards of the 
floor. 

“You’ll find what’s my business, damn you,” 
gritted Big Basford; “you-!” 

He got to his knees and straddling the lad’s 
body came down on his throat with all his 
weight in his terrible grip. At the sound of the 
fall Minnie Pine leaped to a window. 

“That black devil is killing the Blue Eyes,” 



THE IRON HAND OF SKY LINE 31 

she said in patois Spanish to Josefa. “Give 
me that knife-” 

But there was no need of Minnie’s interfer¬ 
ence. 

Kate' Cathrew hard heard that heavy thunder 
of falling bodies on boards and she was quicker 
than her half-breed, for she was up and away 
from the desk before Big Basford had risen on 
his knees, and as she rose her left hand swept 
down the wall, taking from its two pegs the 
heavy quirt that always hung there. 

"With the first jab of the boy’s head back on 
the floor, she was running down the veranda, 
her arm raised high. With the second she was 
between Big Basford and the light like a threat 
of doom. 

As he surged forward once more above the 
blackening face in his throttling fingers, she 
flung her body back in a stiff arc to get more 
impetus—and drove the braided lash forward 
and down like a fury. 

It circled Big Basford’s head from the back, 
the bitter end snapping across his face with in¬ 
describable force. 

It curled him away from his victim, tumbling 
back on his heels with his murderous hands 

covering his cheeks. 

For a moment he hung on the veranda’s edge, 
balanced, then slipped off, lurching on his lame 



32 


NAMELESS RIVER 


foot. He held his hands over his face for a 
tense moment. Then he looked up through his 
fingers, where the blood was beginning to ooze, 
straight at the woman. 

The red-rimmed eyes were savage with rage 
and hurt, but behind both was a flaming passion 
which seemed to swell and burgeon with a per¬ 
verted admiration. 

“I’ve told you before, Basford," said Kate 
Cathrew, “that I will deal with my men myself. 
I don't need your overly zealous aid. Get out 
of my sight—and stay out till you can heed what 
I say. Minnie, take this fool away—pump some 
wind into him. Give him some whiskey." 

She touched the boy contemptuously with the 
toe of her buckled slipper. He was weakly try¬ 
ing to get up and the Porno girl unceremoniously 
finished the effort, lifting him almost bodily in 
her arms and supporting him through the door 
into the kitchen. The look she turned over her 
shoulder at Big Basford was venomous. 

The owner of Sky Line walked down the 
veranda to her living-room door. At its lintel 
she stopped and stood, drawing the heavy quirt 
through her fingers, looking back at Big Bas¬ 
ford. He had watched her progress and now the 
hard, bright, sparkling gaze of her dark eyes 
seemed to force him to movement, so that he 
picked up his hat, set it on his head and turned 
away toward the corrals at Rainbow's foot, 


THE IRON HAND OF SKY LINE S3 

swinging with a rolling gait that further made 
one think of jungle folk. 

But the lips in the flaring beard were twitch¬ 
ing. 

Kate Cathrew went in and hung the quirt on 
its smooth pegs, then sat down and took up her 
interrupted work just where she had left it. 

“Three hundred head,” she said, “prime on 

hoof—at thirteen-fifty-” and her pen began 

to travel evenly across the page before her. 



CHAPTER IV 


THE MYSTERY OF BLUE STONE CANON 

The spring sailed by like a full-rigged skip on 
a windy sea, bright with sun, sweet with surging 
airs, a thing of swiftness and delight. 

On the rich flats of Nameless, Nance Allison 
tilled her soil and her blue eyes caressed the 
land. She loved every sparkling ripple of the 
whispering stream, every cloud-shadow on the 
austere slopes, each jutting shoulder of ridge 
and spine. The homestead was a fetish with 
her. It had been her Pappy’s dream of empire. 
It was hers. He had stuck by and toiled, had 
secured his patent, made the good start. 

She asked nothing better than to carry on, to 
see it prosper and endure. 

But strange disasters had befallen her, one 
after the other—first and bitterest, the hidden 
rope stretched in a cattle trail two years back, 
just after John Allison’s mlysterious death, 
which sent young Bud’s pony tumbling to the 
gulch below and left the boy to walk lopsided 
ever after. 

At that the girl had almost weakened in her 
stubborn purpose. She had held the young head 

34 


THE MYSTERY OF BLUE STONE CANON 35 

in her arms many a weary hour when the pain 
was worst,, and tried to build a plan of a future 
away from Nameless Valley, but Bud would not 
listen. The bare thought made him fret and 
toss, sent the red blood burning in his cheeks. 

“We’ll never let ’em beat us out, Nance,” he 
would pant with his hot breath, “the land is 
ours, safe and legal, and no bunch o’ cut-throats 
is goin’ to get it from us. Not while we can 
stand—not while we can ride or plow—or use a 
gun ! 9 9 

But Nance would stop him always there. 

“ ‘Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me,’ 99 
she would say gently, 6 ‘ we have no need of guns, 
Bud. ’ 9 

However, as the seasons passed, each with its 
promise and its inevitable blight, her face had 
became graver, less smiling. There had been the 
hay fire then—the fire in the night where no 
fire was or had been. There had been the six 
fat steers that disappeared from the range and 
were never heard of, though Bud rode Buckskin 
to a lather in a fruitless search for them. There 
had been the good harness cut to pieces one 
night when Bud had forgotten to lock it up. 

All these had been disasters in a real sense 
to these people living so meagerly with their 
scant possessions. 

And this year they were more than poor, they 
were in debt to McKane for the new harness 



36 


NAMELESS RIVER 


that had to be bought to replace the other. But 
Nance looked at her field of corn coming in long 
rows of tender green on the brown floor of the 
well worked land and hoped. She was prone 
to hope. It was part of her equipment for the 
battle of life, her shield before the lance of her 
courage, her buckler of energy. 

“It looks like a heavy crop, McKane,” she 
told the trader honestly, “and I’ll have far and 
away more than enough for you—I think I’ll 
have enough left for my winter stake.” 

“Hope you do,” said McKane, for though he 
was none too scrupulous where his own inter¬ 
ests were concerned, he felt a vague admiration 
for the game, girl working her lonely homestead 
in her dead father’s place. 

So, with the crop spreading its four delicate 
blades to the coaxing sun and the hay knee-deep 
in the big fenced flat across the river, Nance 
Allison laid by her labors for a while to rest 
her body and refresh her soul. 

“I’ve just got to ride the hills, Mammy,” she 
said smiling, “got to fish the holes in Blue Stone 
Canon, to climb the slopes for a little while. It 
will be my only chance, you know—there’s the 
hay to cut soon and the corn to cultivate, and the 
cattle to look after later. I can’t work all the 
year, Mammy, without a little play.” 

At which the mother’s tragic eyes filled with 
tears—this for her daughter’s only play—the 



THE MYSTERY OF BLUE STONE CANON 37 


riding in the lonesome hills—the fishing for 
trout in a shadowed canon—when her young 
feet should have been tripping to the lilt of 
fiddles—when she should have had ribbons and 
muslin flounces, and a sweetheart—the things of 
youth ere her youth should pass! Pass, toiling 
at the handles of a plow! It was a poignant 
pain indeed, that brought those insistent tears, 
that withheld the fear-urged protest. 

So, in the golden mornings, Nance began to 
saddle Buckskin and ride away, a snack of bread 
and bacon tied behind the cantle, to come 
ambling home at dusk happy, sweet, filled with 
the joy of life, sometimes a string of speckled 
beauties dangling at her knee, sometimes empty 
handedo 

Sometimes Bud went with her, but it was not 
fair to Dan and Molly, the heavy team, to cheat 
them of their share of rest, since Bud must ride 
one or the other of them, and so Nance rode for 
the most part alone. 

She “lifted up her eyes to the hills” in all 
truth and drew from them a very present 
strength. The dark, blue-green slopes of the 
tumbling ridges, covered with a tapestry of 
finely picked out points of pine and fir-trees, 
filled her with the joy of the nature lover, the 
awed humility of the humble heart which con¬ 
siders the handiwork of God. 

She lay for hours on some bleeched log high 


38 


NAMELESS RIVER 


in a sunny glade, her hands under her fair head, 
her lips smiling unconsciously, her long blue 
eyes dreaming into the cloud flecked heavens, 
and sometimes she wondered what the future 
held for her after the fashion of maids since 
the world began. She recalled the restless wan¬ 
derings of the family in her early years, re¬ 
membered vaguely the home and the school in 
old Missouri, her father’s ceaseless urge for 
travel. And then had come their journey’s end, 
here in the austere loneliness of Nameless Val¬ 
ley, where his nomad heart had settled down and 
had been at homie. She thought of these fa¬ 
miliar things, and of others not familiar, such 
as picturing the house she and Bud would one 
day build on the big meadow, with running 
water piped from the rushing stream itself, with 
carpets—Mrs. Allison was already sewing inter¬ 
minable balls of “rags” for the fabric—and 
with such simple comforts as seemed to her 
nothing short of luxuries. She knew of a 
woman in Bement who wove carpets, a Mrs. 
Porter, at the reasonable price of thirty cents 
a yard, warp included. The warp should be 
brown-and-white, she decided—at least she had 
so decided long back after many conferences 
with her mother. 

Brown and white running softly through the 
dim colors of the rags—nothing new enough to 
be bright went into the balls, though there wrnuld 


THE MYSTERY OF BLUE STONE CANON 39 

be a soft golden glow all through the hit-and- 
miss fabric from the “hanks’’ dyed with cop¬ 
peras—brown and white, Nance thought, would 
make it seem like the floor of the woods in fall, 
weathered and beautiful. 

She could scarcely wait the time of the ful¬ 
fillment of this dress, when the cabin floors 
should be soft under foot. 

Longing for the refinements was strong in 
her, though limited painfully to such simple 
scope as Cordova supplied, or as she remem¬ 
bered dimly from the days of her childhood in 
Missouri. 

But the glory of the land was too compelling 
for idle dreams of the future. Here at hand 
were carpets of brown pine needles, shot 
through with scarlet bleeding hearts. 

Here were mosses soft and wonderful when 
one bent close enough to study their minute and 
intricate patterns. Here were vast distances 
and dropping slopes, veiled in pale blue haze so 
delicate as to seem an hallucination. 

Here also, were the mysterious fastnesses of 
Blue Stone Canon, its perpendicular walls of 
eroded rock cut by seam and fissure, its hollow 
aisles resonant always of the murmurous stream 
that tumbled through them. 

Nance loved the canon. She liked to climb 
among its boulders, to whip its frequent pools 
for the trout that hung in their moving smooth- 


40 


NAMELESS RIVER 


ness, to listen to the thousand voices that seemed 
always whispering and talking. They were 
made of fairy stuff and madness, these voices. 
If one sat still and listened long enough he 
could swear that they were real, that strange 
concourses discussed the secrets of the spheres. 
On the hottest days of summer the canon was 
cool, for a wind drew always through it from 
its unknown head somewhere in the Deep Hearts 
themselves far to the north and east. Buckskin 
felt the mysterious influence of the soundful 
silence, pricking his ears, listening, holding his 
breath to let it out in snorts, and Nance laughed 
at his uneasiness. 

“Buckskin/ ’ she said one day, as she lay 
stretched at length on a flat rock beside a boiling 
riffle, “you’re a bundle of nerves, a natural-born 
finder of fears. There isn’t a thing bigger or 
uglier than yourself in all the canon—unless it’s 
a panther skulking up in the branches, and he 
wouldn’t come near for a fortune—though what 
could be fortune to a cougar, I wonder!” she 
went on to herself, smiling at the strip of sky 
that topped the frowning rimrock, “only a full 
belly, I guess—the murderer.” 

She lay a long time basking in the sun that 
shone straight down, for it was noon, revelling 
in the relaxation of her young body, long worked 
to the limit and frankly tired. 

She took her bread and bacon from a pocket 


THE MYSTERY OF BLUE STONE CANON 41 

and ate with the relish which only healthy youth 
can muster, clearing up the last crumb, drank 
from the stream, her face to the surface, and 
finally rose with a long breath of satisfaction. 

44 You can stay here, you old fraid-cat,” she 
said to the pony, dropping his rein over his 
head, 44 it’s hard on your feet, anyway. Me— 
I’m going on up a ways.” 

Buckskin looked anxiously after her, but 
stayed where he was bid, as a well-trained horse 
should do, and the girl went on up the canon, 
her fair head bare, her hands on her hips. 

She drank in the sombre beauty of the dull 
blue walls, hung to their towering rims with cor- 
ruscation and prominence carved fantastically 
by the erosion of uncounted years—listened, lips 
apart the better to hear, to the deep blended 
monotone of the talking voices. 

She skirted great boulders fallen from above, 
waded a riffle here, leaped a narrow there, and 
always the great cut became rougher, wilder, 
more forbidding and mysterious. 

She stood for a long time beside a pool that 
lay, still-seeming and dark, behind a huge rock, 
but in whose shadowed depths she could see the 
swirling of white sand that marked its turmoil. 

The canon widened here a bit, its floor strewn 
with jumbled boulders, its walls honeycombed 

with water-eaten caves. 

When the snows melted in the high gulches of 


42 


NAMELESS RIVER 


the Beep Hearts a little later, this place would 
be a roaring race. She thought of its foamy 
volume pouring from the canon’s mouth to 
swell the flood of Nameless a bit below her 
southern boundary. But it was a lone and lovely 
spot now, what with its peopled silence and its 
blue-toned walls. 

These things were passing through her mind 
as she watched the swirling sand, when all 
suddenly, as if an invisible hand had brushed 
her, she became alert in every fibre. 

She had heard nothing new in the murmurous 
monotone, seen no shadow among the pale 
shadows about her—yet something had changed. 
Some different element had intruded itself into 
the stark elements of the place. 

Her skin rose in tiny prickles, she felt her 
muscles stiffen. She had lived in the face of 
menace so long that she was super-sensitive, 
had developed a seventh sense that was quick 
to the nth degree. 

She stood for a moment gathering her powers, 
then she whirled in her tracks, sweeping the 
canon’s width with eyes that missed nothing. 

They did not miss the movement which was 
almost too swift for sight—the dropping of some 
dark object behind a rock, the passing of a bit 
of plumy tail. 

The rock itself was between her and the 


THE MYSTERY OF BLUE STONE CANON 43 

broken foot of the wall, one of a mass that had 
tumbled from the weathered face. For a long 
time she stood very still, waiting, watching with 
unwinking eyes. Then, at the rock’s edge, but 
farther away, she caught another glimpse of 
that tail-tip. Its wearer was making for the 
wall-foot, keeping the rock between. A wolf 
would do so—but there was something about 
that bit of plume which did not spell wolf. It 
was tawny white, and it was more loosely 
haired, not of the exact quality of a wolf’s brush. 
Once more a tiny tip showed—and on a sudden 
daring impulse Nance Allison leaped for the 
rock, caught its top with both hands and peered 
over. 

With a snarl and a whirl the owner of the tail 
faced her in the low mouth of a cave, his pointed 
ears flat to his head, his feet spread wide apart, 
his back dropped, his jaws apart and ready, and 
round his outstretched neck there stood up in 
quivering defiance, the broad white ruff of a 
pure-bred Collie dog! 

The girl stared at him with open-mouthed 
amazement—and at the more astonishing thing 
which lay along the pebbled earth beneath him— 
for this was the thin little leg and foot of a 
small child. 

In utter silence and stillness she stood so, 
her hands on the rock’s top, and for all the 
length of time that she watched there was not 


44 


NAMELESS RIVER 


a tremor of tlie little leg, nor a movement of the 
dog’s crouching hodj r . The only motion in the 
tense picture was the ripple of the stream, the 
quiver of the lips drawn back from the gleaming 
fangs. 

When the tension became unbearable Nance 
spoke softly. 

“Come, boy,” she said, “come—boy—come.” 

She ventured a hand across the rock, but the 
quivering lips drew back a trifle more, the big 
body crouched a bit lower—and the little bare 
leg draw out of sight behind the edge of the 
cave. 

Carefully the girl slipped back from the rock 
toward the pool, gained its lip, and dropped 
swiftly away down the canon. 

At a little distance she drew a deep breath 
and looked back. 

The blue canon lay still under the filtered 
rays of the noon sun, empty, murmurous, en¬ 
chanted. 

The mouth of the cave was black and vacant. 

There was no sign of fiery eyes and slavering 
jaws, of a thin little leg under a fringe of blue 
jeans rags! 

With eyes dilated and lips closed in amazed 
silence Nance Allison made her way back to 
Buckskin, mounted and returned to the flats of 
Nameless. 

She had found Mystery with a capital, but 


THE MYSTERY OF BLUE STONE CANON 45 


she knew that she must wait with patience its 
unravelling. 

Those pale eyes between the flat ears held a 
challenge which only a fool would disregard—it 
would take time and patience. 

But, for the love of humanity, why was a child 
hiding like a fawn in Blue Stone Canon—with 
only a dog to guard it—and with no sign of 
camp or people? 


CHAPTER V 


WHAT NANCE FOUND 

Nance pushed Buckskin hard and rode in early 
to the cabin and her mother’s counsel. She put 
the little horse away in the stable and fed him 
his quota of the precious hay, for Buckskin was 
not turned out to graze. He, along with Dan 
and Mollie, was too necessary to the life of the 
homestead to take chances with. 

They would miss him sorely should he go the 
way of the six steers. 

She hurried up and pulled open the kitchen 
door. 

“Mammy,” she said excitedly to the gaunt 
woman shelling peas by the table, “I’ve found 
something in the canon. I wonder—should I 
meddle?” 

Mrs. Allison laid her wrinkled brown hands 
on the edge of the pan and looked at her 
daughter. 

“It’s according,” she said soberly, “does it 
need meddlin’?” 

“That’s what I don’t know. I found a Collie 
dog—a savage dog for that breed—and a little 

46 


WHAT NANCE FOUND 


47 


child hiding in a cave. I couldn’t get near to 
them, but they act like they know what they’re 
doing—they had watched me from behind a rock 
and crawled to the cave in line with it when I 
turned. I only saw the child’s foot—but it was 
a thin little thing—and the old jeans pant-leg 
was weathered to rags. There wasn’t a sign of 
camp—nothing. What could it mean!” 

The anxiety of a universally loving heart was 
in Nance’s voice. “Did I do right to come away 
—or should I have tried some more to see 
tliemi! It couldn’t be done, though—the dog is 
on guard. He’ll have to be handled slowly, I’m 
sure of that.” 

Mrs. Allison considered this odd information 
gravely. 

“It means someone else besides the child and 
dog, that’s certain. They never got there by 
their lone selves.” 

“But maybe they got lost from some one— 

and they may be hungry-” the girl half rose 

at that thought, her brows gathering in distress— 
“though whoever could be in Blue Stone Canon, 
and what for, I don’t know.” 

The older woman shook her head. 

“Not one chance in a thousand of that. No— 
someone else is there, that’s sure. An’ I don’t 
believe I’d meddle.” 

But Nance rose determinedly. 

“I’ve got to, Mammy,” she said, “I’d never 




48 


NAMELESS RIVER 


sleep another night if I didn’t. Tomorrow I’ll 
go back bright and early.” 

The mother regarded her with troubled eyes. 

4 ‘Let Bud go, too—you never know—might 
be a trap or somethin’.” 

“With such bait! No. That little leg was so 
thin—like its owner was wispy. I wish it was 
morning. ’ ’ 

All the rest of the day and the tranquil eve¬ 
ning Nance felt a thrill and stir within her, a 
trouble. She milked old Whitefoot and her sleek 
black daughter, Pearly, to the remembered 
sound of the fairy voices of the canon, and when 
she sat to her nightly reading of the Word be¬ 
neath the coal-oil lamp on the table there in¬ 
truded on the sacred page the gleaming fangs 
above that motionless small leg. 

With grey dawn she was up and about her 
work that she might get an early start. Bud 
was all for going with her, but she would not 
have it so. 

“I’ll have trouble enough getting near,” she 
told him, “the best I can do. Another stranger 
would make them wilder still.” 

The boy caught her hand as she swung up on 
Buckskin. 

“Be careful, Sis,” he said, “look sharp on 
every side.” 

He had never forgotten that stretched rope. 


WHAT NANCE FOUND 


49 


Neither had Nance, but she walked bravely in 
a faith which made her serenely bold. 

“ ‘Commit thy way unto the Lord,’ ” she said 
smiling, “ ‘Trust also in Him.’ Don’t you 
fret—nor let Mammy, if you can help it. I’ll 
be back soon as I can.” 

Then she was gone down across the flats with 
Buckskin on the lope, one hand feeling carefully 
for the package she had tied behind the saddle. 
This contained a goodly piece of boiled corn- 
beef and two slices of her mother’s bread, fresh 
baked the day before. She was going armed 
with bribery. 

The whole Nameless Valley between its great 
escarpments was fresh and cool with shadow, 
for the sun was not yet above Mystery ridge 
and the rimrock that marked the way to the 
canon. 

The river itself talked to the boulders in its 
bed, and the little winds that drew up the myriad 
defiles were sweet with the fragrance of pines 
and that nameless scent of water which cannot 
be described. All these things were the joy of 
life to Nance. 

She loved them with a passion whose force 
she did not comprehend. They were what sweet¬ 
ened her hard and ceaseless toil, what made of 
each new day in her monotonous round something 
to be met with eager gladness, to be lived through 


50 


NAMELESS RIVER 


joyfully, missing nothing of the promise of 
dawn, the fulfillment of noon, the blessing of 
twilight. They had stirred and delighted the 
nomad heart of her father before her, they had 
hlled her own with contentment. 

Eager as she was to be in the canon she did 
not mass the pale pageant of light above rimrock, 
or fail to watch the golden halo come along the 
* crest of Rainbow Cliff. 

But she soon crossed the river and entered 
the mouth of the great cut, leaving behind the 
miracle of burgeoning day, for here the shadows 
were still thick, like grey ghosts. She pushed 
on up for an hour or so, listening to the voices 
which were still talking, while the shadows 

thinned between the duskv walls. 

%/ 

At the point where she had left the pony the 
day before she dismounted and dropped his rein. 

“You wait here, old nuisance,” she said 
darkly, rubbing his restless ears, “for I may 
have sudden need of you. If you see me come 
flying out with a, streak of tawny fur behind 
me, don’t you. dare break when I jump. So 
long. ’ ’ 

She took the bread and meat from the saddle 
and started on foot. It was not so far to the 
swirling pool and the cave behind the rock, and 
long before the sunlight had crept half way down 
the ragged stone wall at the western side of 
the canon she had reached them. She went care- 


WHAT NANCE FOUND 


51 


fully, picking her way, eyes scanning each turn 
and boulder. At the pool’s edge she stood a 
long time, watching, listening, but there was 
nothing to be seen or heard. 

She went to the mouth of the cave and peering 
in cautiously, called softly. She waited, but 
there was no answering growl, no whirlwind 
rush as she had half expected. The shallow cave 
was empty, save for some ashes of a dead fire 
and blankets. She circled the rock and began 
hunting for tracks in the white sand of the canon 
bed—and presently she found them—small 
tracks of childish feet, set close beside the padded 
narrow prints of a dog—and they were going up 
the canon, deeper into its fastnesses. She 
trailed them easily for a distance, then lost them 
in the foaming shallows of a riffle, and search 
as she would she could not find where they came 
out. There was a flat lip of rock on the other 
side, to be sure, but beyond that was sand again, 
and it lay clear, unruffled. Above the riffle was 
a long deep pool, swift and flowing, and she 
stood for a time contemplating it. 

It hardly seemed possible that the fwo out¬ 
casts could have swum it, and yet—where were 
their tracks if they had not! 

She circled the pool and went on, trailing 
carefully, but the bed beyond was composed of 
shale, blue and sharp—hard going for a child’s 
bare feet, she thought compassionately—and 


52 


NAMELESS RIVER 


gave no sign of a crossing. For another hour 
she went on, scanning the walls, the fallen 
stones, the stream itself and every nook or 
corner where anything might hide. She was 
far in Blue Stone Canon by this time and won¬ 
dered at the endurance which could have brought 
a child so far. Or had some one come and taken 
it away? That was possible, of course, and 
yet—a grown up person would have left marks 
in the soft sand assuredly. She would—but at 
this point in her train of thought, she came 
around a sharp jut in the wall—and face to face 
with her quarry, or at least with part of it. 

Startled, the dog she had seen the day before 
was crouched in the narrow way that led around 
the jut, his body half turned, one foot raised, 
tail lowered, and the face he turned back across 
his shoulder was the most vicious thing Nance 
had ever seen. He was crouched to spring, and 
the fury of his snarls, audible above the sound 
of the stream, made that odd clutch close her 
throat which always accompanies sudden hor¬ 
ror. 

Nance Allison was a brave woman, but she 
was scared then. 

She stood rooted to the spot and could not 
tear her eyes from the dog’s pale flaming orbs 
to look at the little creature which she knew 
was running with a flurry of rags and naked 
arms up along the canon wall. 


WHAT NANCE FOUND 


53 


For a long moment they eyed each other, then, 
without other warning than a flicker of those 
flaming eyes, the Collie sprang. 

He came high, sailing up and forward, his 
forepaws spread, his head thrust out and down¬ 
ward, his jaws gaping. 

In the second that followed instinct acted in 
Nance, not reason. Instead of recoiling, she 
surged forward to meet the onslaught, her right 
arm raised before her like a horizontal bar. 

The faded denim sleeve was down and but¬ 
toned at the wrist, where the gauntlet of her 
cheap leather glove made a cuff. 

Into that gaping mouth went the arm, jam¬ 
ming hard, while she flung her left arm around 
the ruffed white throat like a clamp. 

If she was surprised at her own instinctive 
and prompt action, the Collie was more so. 
Down on the sand went girl and dog, a rolling, 
tumbling bundle. In the half second which 
served to make the dog the victim instead of 
the attacking force, his outlook on the situation 
was completely changed. He had charged in a 
fury of rage. Now he fought frantically, but 
it was to free his mouth from the choking bar 
that filled it, to get his head out of the vice which 
held it. But Nance found herself in a dilemma, 
too. She was afraid to let go. As she rolled 
over in the struggle she cast desperate eyes up 
along the wall where she had seen the eerie 


54 


NAMELESS RIVER 


small figure running in its rags. True enough, 
it was there, stopped, facing her, bent forward, 
its little hands clasped in a curiously old fashion 
of distress. 

“Little boy!” she called, “come here! Come 
and talk to your dog—come quick! I won’t hurt 
you. Come and call him—please come!” 

For a moment she lay panting, looking into 
the dilated eyes so near her face. 

“Old chap,” she said softly, “what’s all the 
fuss? I’m your friend if you only knew it. 
Nice doggie-■” 

She glanced at the child again, who had not 
moved. 

“Come on, sonny,” she called coaxingly, 
“come on—please.” 

Slowly the child came forward, hesitant, 
afraid, his small face pale with fright. 

He sidled near and put out a dirty hand to 
the dog’s right ear. The little hand closed— 
pulled—and Nance felt the dog’s body twitch in 
an effort to obey. She knew at once that that 
was the way they travelled together—the child 
holding to his ear. Slowly she relaxed her 
grip, let go the backward pressure. The Collie 
jerked free and backed off shaking his head, 
and Nance sat up, folding her feet beneath her. 

Then she smiled at the two waifs of Blue 
Stone Canon. 



WHAT NANCE FOUND 


55 


“That isn’t a nice way to treat folks who 
come to see you, is it, sonny?” she asked, “to 
set your dog on them?” 

“I didn’t set him on,” said the child in a high 
treble, “he set himself on you.” 

“I guess you’re right,” answered the girl, 
“but don’t let go of him again. Go over there 
and pick up that package and bring it to me.” 

She pointed to the package of bread and meat 
which had been flung wide in the recent trouble, 
and the child obeyed, dragging the Collie along, 
who went unwillingly, his distrustful and baffled 
eyes turned back across his shoulder to keep her 
in sight. 

The child, too, was wary, reaching far out, 
stretching his small body to the utmost between 
her hand and his hold on the dog’s ear. 

Quickly Nance unrolled the cloth. She counted 
on the aroma which now arose on the clear air. 

“I’m hungry,” she said nonchalantly, “are 
you?” 

The boy nodded. 

“And your dog, too?” 

“I ’spect so,” he answered gravely. 

She broke the food into sections and handed 
a portion over. 

The dirty little hand reached eagerly this 
time. 

“Feed him some,” she said, indicating the 


56 


NAMELESS RIVER 


dog, but already the child was dividing as best 
he could without releasing his hold. 

The dog grabbed the fragrant meat and bolted 
it, watching her the while. Quickly she tossed 
him a bit of her own. He snapped that up also 
and she fancied the expression of the pale eyes 
changed. She remembered now the extraor¬ 
dinary lightness of the great furry body, as if 
there was little beneath the splendid tawny coat 
save bones and spirit. Plenty of the latter, she 
reflected, smiling. Whew! but wasn’t he a 
fighter! But trained to the last degree—though 
he regarded her as a foe, still at the touch of 
the small hand for which he had fought he stood 
obedient. Pretending to eat herself, she man¬ 
aged to give the greater part of the food to the 
two before her, and they devoured it to the ul¬ 
timate crumb. 

“Where you live!” she asked the child at last 
otf-handedly, but he did not answer. He was 
picking the crumbs he had dropped from the 
front of his bleached blue shirt—the pitiful ex¬ 
cuse for a shirt, without sleeves, if one excepted 
the strings that hung from the shoulders, with¬ 
out buttons and all but falling from the scrawny 
little body underneath. As she watched him 
Nance’s heart ached for his poverty, for his 
woe-begone appearance. She was filled with a 
cautious excitement. The Collie had sat down 
beside the boy, who had loosed his hold by now. 


WHAT NANCE FOUND 


57 


It seemed that hostilities were relaxed, though 
she took no chances. 

“I live down on the flats by the river/’ she 
said presently. “I get lots of fish from these 
pools. They’re awfully good, too.” 

The child nodded. 

“I know,” he said, 'Sve do, too.” 

"Who catches ’em!” asked Nance. "Not 
you!” 

He shook his head. 

"No. Brand does.” 

"Who’s Brand!” she followed quickly, hut 
once more the child shook his unkempt head. 

"Just Brand,” he said. 

Nance saw that further questioning would not 
do, therefore, she fell back on the wiles of 
woman, the blandishments of sex. 

She rocked on her heels, holding her ankles in 
her hands and smiled with the winsome sweet¬ 
ness which so few in the world knew she pos¬ 
sessed. 

"I like little boys,” she said, "and I haven’t 
any. But I’ve got a pony. Name’s Buckskin.” 

"Brand’s got one, too,” said the child, "only 
Diamond ain’t a pony—he’s a horse. He’s a big 
horse. Brand has got to swing me pretty high 
to get me up. When we ride-” 

But again some inner warning stopped him, 
some stern habit closed his mouth. 

Nance held out a hand. 



58 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“If you’ll come sit in my lap a little while,” 
she coaxed, “I’ll tell you all about the place 
where I live. Will you?” 

The little fellow twisted in shy indecision. 

“Don’t like me?” Nance asked aggrievedly. 

“I like you-” She smiled again and reached 

the hand a little nearer. 

Diffidently the child took it—edged up—hesi¬ 
tated. 

She was wise enough to not insist, even to 
relax her pull a bit. 

True to the law of the contrary which rules 
the world of childhood, he sidled closer—leaned 
against her shoulder—and the girl gently folded 
him in her arms. 

At the feel of the thin little body, all bones 
and skin under the dilapidated garments, the 
protective thrill of potential motherhood went 
through her and tears swam suddenly in her 
eyes. 

A neglected pair, or one smitten by dire pov¬ 
erty, she thought pitifully—this lone little chap 
hiding among the rocks and guarded so well by 
the skeleton dog. The dog, by the way, had 
risen belligerently to his feet at the child’s ad¬ 
vance, and his eyes were gleaming again at this 
unlooked-for familiarity with a total stranger. 

“Call him, sonny,” she said, and the child 
obeyed. 



WHAT NANCE FOUND 


59 


And so it was that after a while Blue Stone 
Canon saw the miracle of friendship grow like a 
magic flower in its pale light, for the girl talked 
low and sweetly to the child in her lap—and 
strangest of all, the savage Collie sat gravely on 
his plumy tail beside the two, accepting the turn 
of fate. 

When Nance made ready to go away at noon 
she knew that Brand was coming at night, that 
these two had always ridden on Diamond, and 
that they would ride again some day, while Dirk, 
the Collie, would run beside them. She knew 
that Brand was always gone in daylight, and 
that the cave by the rock below was home. 

But that was all she did know, or could find 
out, except that the child’s name was Sonny and 
that he was seven. 

Perhaps it was due to the fact that she had 
inadvertently called him that, that she owed the 
success of the hour. 

Be that as it may, the yearning pity which she 
felt made Nance use the last and greatest of* 
feminine wiles to win him to her. 

“I’m going away now,” she said smiling into 
the grave brown eyes in the little face, “but if 
you’ll kiss me—and won’t tell Brand a thing 
about me, I’ll come again tomorrow—and I’ll 
bring you some more goodies. How about it?” 

The promise, the kiss—these completed the 



GO 


NAMELESS RIVER 


downfall of the lonely waif, and Nance’s heart 
ached anew at the pathetic grip of the weazened 
arms about her neck. 

From the far bend she looked back—and this 
time it was to see the two strange denizens of 
Blue Stone Canon watching her in the habitual 
repression and silence of their unnatural lives, 
but withal so hungrily that the mist swam in 
her eyes again. 

“What’d you find, Nance?” Bud queried when 
she rode in at home. 

“I found a mystery I’m going to unravel,” 
she answered grimly, “or my name’s not Nance 
Allison—and I made love to a half-starved little 
kid—and got all chewed up by a dog—and I 
heard of a man who’s going to get a piece of 
my mind some day—now, mark me!” 

“Land sake!” said Mrs. Allison in the door¬ 
way, “what are they—campers?” 

“No—and it looks mighty mysterious to me, 
Mammy. As soon’s Bud puts Buckskin away 
I’ll tell you all about it. 



CHAPTER VI 


SHADOWS IH THE SHERIFFS GLASS 

The sheriff went back to the store at Cordova 
and looked the proprietor in the eye. 

“McKane,” he said, “is there anything you 
want to say to me?” 

McKane looked at him sullenly. 

“Don’t know’s there is,” he answered frankly, 
“you’re able to answer it if I have, I find. I 
didn’t wake up for two hours after you left 
that day.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Price Selwood earnestly, 
“but you know you run against my fist yourself. 
I’d never mess up with a friend if I didn’t have 
to. You’d ought to know me well enough to 
know that. ’ ’ 

“I guess I do—but that damned sneering 
threat of yours, Price—it just set me to seeing 
red. You don’t seem to know a woman from 
a man, somehow.” 

There was a petulent complaint in his voice. 

“Not when the woman’s Kate Cathrew,” said 
the sheriff grimly, “I don’t.” 


62 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“You’re a good sheriff, Price, and a good 
man, but you’re stupid as liell sometimes. To 
hold Miss Cathrew under your two-bit magnify¬ 
ing glass of suspicion as you do is drivelling 
twiddle—silly child’s play. True, she lives an 
out-of-the-ordinary life-” 

“I’ll say she does,” interrupted Selwood, 
“by what power does she hold together the 
worst set of off-scourings this country ever 
saw? Why do they obey her lightest word, step 
lively when she speaks in that high-and-mighty 
tone of hers? Tell me that. It ain’t natural— 
not by a long shot. And here’s another thing— 
a good two-thirds of them ain’t cattlemen. 
Never were. I know that every new one, as 
he has come in from time to time during these 
past three or four years, has had to be taught 
the cattle business. Caldwell, her foreman, is 
a cowhand—he came from Texas—and so is that 
long black devil they call Sud Provine, and one 
or two others, but the rest are city products, 
or I’m a liar—and why does she want that 
kind? And she keeps a heavy force for the 
amount of cattle she runs.” 

McKane spread his hands in eloquent resig¬ 
nation. 

“You two-bit officers!” he said, “you make 
me sick.” 

“Make you sick because you’re already sick 




SHADOWS IN THE SHERIFF’S GLASS 63 


for Kate Cathrew—who wouldn’t wipe her boots 
on you, and you know it.” 

“Sure, I know it. But that don’t prevent me 
taking up for a woman, anywhere, any time.” 

Uncertain of morals and dealings as the trader 
was, there was a simple dignity in his words 
which demanded respect, and they struck Sel- 
wood so. 

“I’m sorry I can’t see Cattle Kate in the 
proper light, McKane,” he said, “and that 
we’ve come to words and blows over her. Maybe 
I lack something fine which you possess—but 
she’s under my glass, all right, and I’m as sure 
as I stand here that some day its rays will show 
her up.” 

“As what?” 

“I’m not saying.” 

“Men have died in their boots for less than 
that. ’ ’ 

“True—but I won’t.” 

“Maybe not.” 

“Look here, McKane—don’t mess into Kate 
Cathrew’s affairs. I’m giving you my hunch 
that the man who does is due for tragedy sooner 
or later—and you have no reason, for Kate don’t 
care for you.” 

“No—nor for any other man.” 

“Wrong,” said the sheriff succinctly. 

“Eh?” 

“Don’t forget the man who comes in once a 


64 


NAMELESS RIVER 


year—and he’s due before so very long again— 
the man who sends her that regular letter from 
New York and who comes across the continent 
to see her!” 

“Mr. Lawrence Arnold? Why, he’s her busi¬ 
ness partner—owns a full half-interest in Sky 
Line.” 

“Well? You watch Kate’s face when you see 
them together again this summer.” 

“Hell!” said McKane again in that resigned 
voice, “how’d you ever get elected with those 
reasoning powers of yours?” 

“Oh—all right. But stay clear of Cattle 
Kate’s fringes—for some day there’s going to 
be the prettiest blow-up ever seen in the cattle 
country of the Deep Heart Hills—and Kate’s 
going mile high on the explosion.” 

“If you’re so damned bright as a sheriff why 
don’t you busy yourself with trying to find out 
who stole that last bunch of steers from Conlan 
a month ago? The old man’s half crazy with the 
loss. Yes—and that ninety head from Bos-> 
sink—and the ones run off Jermyn’s range last 
year? It looks like there’s plenty he-man stuff 
around Nameless to interest your keen powers 
of perception without picking on a woman.” 

The sheriff was tying his sack of purchases on 
behind his saddle and didn’t look round. 

“I’ll never find those cattle, McKane—nor will 
anyone else—this side of cow-heaven,” he said 




SHADOWS IN THE SHERIFF’S GLASS 65 


as lie mounted, “but they, and their manner of 
disappearance, along* with a few other things 
are all under that magnifying glass of mine. I 
think their ghosts will be in at that blow-up.’’ 

“That’s rustler talk, Price,” said the trader 
shortly. 

“Sure,” returned Selwood as he rode away. 

That talk set going in the sheriff’s mind a 
train of thought which was recurrent with him, 
which was forever travelling with him some¬ 
where in his consciousness. Sometimes one thing 
set it going, sometimes another. In the two 
years already passed of his term of office it had 
been a matter of deep annoyance to him that he 
had not been able to put his hands on the mys¬ 
terious rustlers who from time to time got away 
with stock up and down Nameless River. 

This unseen, baleful agency was baffling as 
smoke. 

It struck here—and there—with a decisive 
clean stroke like the head of a killing hawk, and 
there was nothing to show the how and where¬ 
fore. Cattle disappeared from the range with 
a smooth magic which was maddening. They 
left no trace, nothing. It seemed ridiculous that 
ninety head of steers could be driven out of the 
country leaving no trail, but such had been the 
case. 

Selwood himself, with a picked posse, had 
trailed them into the river, and there they must 


66 


NAMELESS RIVER 


have taken to themselves wings, for they had 
apparently never come out. To be sure Kate 
Cathrew was driving out her fall beef at the 
time, and the trampling band had crossed the 
river a hit below where the ninety head had 
entered the stream. That trampled crossing was 
the only spot for miles each way where a cattle- 
brute could have left the water, for Selwood 
searched every foot with eagle eyes. The co¬ 
incidence of time stayed with the sheriff dog¬ 
gedly, even though the Cathrew cattle, honestly 
branded, went boldly through Cordova and down 
the Strip, as the narrow valley beside Nameless 
was called, and thence out to the railroad, three 
long days’ drive away. 

And the smaller thefts—old man Conlon’s 
bunch, and those of Jermyn—all lifted light as 
a feather. These had left not even a hoof- 
mark. It w T as smooth stuff—and it galled the 
sheriff, was a secret source of humiliation. He 
had heard a good many remarks about his own 
inaction, though nearly all of the ranchers in 
the country were his friends. 

But deep inside himself he laid a spiritual 
finger on the handsome, frowning-eyed woman 
at Sky Line and held it there. 

Sooner or later, he told himself, as he had told 
McKane, the steady rays of his searching glass 
would reveal in her the thing he knew was 
there. 


SHADOWS IN THE SHERIFF’S GLASS 67 

This was not logic, it was instinct—a poor 
thing for a sheriff to base his actions on, ap¬ 
parently, but Price Selwood based his thereon 
in unwavering confidence. 

And if he could have looked into the living- 
room at Sky Line that day he would have jotted 
in his mental note-book as correct, one premise 
—for the mistress sat again at her dark wood 
desk and read a letter, and her face was well 
worth watching. 

The letter bore a New York postmark, and 
its terms were sharp and decisive, almost legal, 
leaving no doubt of their meaning. 

Thus they carried to her consciousness a clear 
presentment of satisfaction concerning the last 
shipment of cattle, and just as clear an avowal 
of affection. 

Kate Cathrew’s sharp face was suffused with 
a light not meant for any eyes at Sky Line as 
she read and reread the sheets in her hands. 

At their concluding words—“and so think I 
shall be with you at the usual time”—her lips 
parted over her teeth in a slow smile which 'was 
the visible embodiment of passion, while her 
dark eyes became for a moment slumbrous with 

the same surging force. 

There was a man this woman loved, if ever a 
face spoke truth, and he was the writer of the 

letter. 

Though the scattered denizens of the outside 


68 


NAMELESS RIVER 


world of Nameless knew nothing of this, it was 
covertly known at Sky Line. 

Every one of the hard-eyed hand of riders 
knew it, with varying feelings, Minnie Pine 
knew it and old Josefa. Big Basford knew it 
and his red-rimmed eyes glowed with the light 
of murder when he watched Kate sit on the 
veranda with Lawrence Arnold in the long sum¬ 
mer days while the light drowsed down from 
the high blue vault and Rainbow Cliff sent down 
its prismatic colors shining afar over the slopes 
of Mystery. There was a look in the woman’s 
dusky eyes that was plain as print—the hot, 
unsmiling, inflammable look of untempered pas¬ 
sion. 

Now she folded the letter, slipped it back in its 
envelope and put it away in a drawer of the 
desk which she locked securely with a key on a 
ring that she took from a pocket in her neat 
outing skirt. The act was indicative of Kate 
Cathrew’s mode of life in her high domain. All 
things were ordered, filed and locked, so to 
speak, and she alone was the master. 

A little later she went out on the broad ver¬ 
anda and sat down in the deep willow chair 
which rocked there, stirred fantastically by the 
stiff breeze which swept in across the great blue 
gulf of space between the peaks. Her eyes 
dropped down and down the wooded slopes of 


SHADOWS IN THE SHERIFF’S GLASS 69 

Mystery slanting beneath her to the long green 
flats on Nameless, the equally long brown spaces 
of Nance Allison’s tilled field. Sight of that field 
was a barb in her consciousness. It never failed 
to stir her to slow and resurgent anger. It was 
an affront to her arrogant autocracy, a challenge 
and a taunt. 

She who hewed to her mark with such brilliant 
finesse, who had not so far failed to get what 
she wanted from life, had failed to get those 
flats—the best feeding ground for cattle in a 
hundred miles of range. 

Cattle Kate Cathrew frowned as she regarded 
the tiny brown scar on the green bowl so far 
below and tapped her slim muscular fingers on 
the peeled arm of the hand-made rocker. 

For half an hour she sat so, her chin on her 
hand, thinking. 

Then at last she straightened and called Min¬ 
nie Pine from the inner regions. 

“Send me Caldwell,” she said briefly. 

WTien presently the foreman came from the 
corrals and stood before her, his hat in his 
hand, his attitude one of strict attention, she 
spoke swiftly with a certain satisfaction. 

When she had finished, he said, “Sure. It’s a 
pretty long trick, but it can be done.” 

“Then do it,” said Kate Cathrew, “when I 
give the word. We’ll wait a little, however 


70 


NAMELESS RIVER 


until the corn shows green from here. The 
better it looks one day the greater will be the 
contrast next. That’s all.” 

4 ‘The devils are working in the Boss’s head 
again,” said Minnie Pine, who had listened be¬ 
hind the window, speaking to old Josef a in their 
polyglot Spanish and Pomo, “and hell’s going 
to pop for the sun-woman on Nameless.” 

“How do vou know!” asked the ancient d&me, 
weaving a basket in dim green grasses. 

“Because I heard what she said to Caldwell.” 

“You hear too much. An overloaded basket 
—breaks.” 

“Huh,” grunted the half-breed, “the open eye 
sees game—for its owner’s fattening.” 

“What are you two talkin’ about!” asked the 
slim boy whom Big Baston had so nearly mur¬ 
dered that day on the porch, “always talkin’ in 
that damned native tongue. Why don’t you 
learn white man’s talk, Minnie!” 

The girl wheeled to him where he leaned in 
the kitchen door, and her comely dark face 
flushed with pleasure. 

“Would you like me any better!” 

“Sure,” he said, “make you seem a little 
whiter anyway.” 

There was cruelty in the careless speech, and 
it did not miss its mark, though Minnie Pine’s 
dark eyes gave no sign. 


SHADOWS IN THE SHERIFF’S GLASS 71 


‘ ‘ The young-green-tree-with-the-rising-sun-be- 
hind it may want to talk the white man’s 
tongue,” said old Josef a grimly, “but she’s a 
fool. All half-breeds are. They reap sorrow.” 

The boy laughed and his face came the nearest 
to wholesome youth of any at Sky Line. It still 
held something of softness, of humorous toler¬ 
ance and good temper, as if not all its heritage 
of good intent had been warped away to wicked¬ 
ness. 

His blue eyes regarded the big girl with ap¬ 
proval, passing over her sleek black hair that 
shone like a crow’s wing, her placid brow and 
unwavering dark eyes, her high cheeks and re¬ 
pressed thin lips. 

“I’ll give you a kiss, Minnie,” he drawled, 
“for half that cream pie yonder.” 

Minnie looked at the pie and at Josefa, speak¬ 
ing swiftly. 

The old woman nodded. 

“If the mountain-stream wants to waste itself 
on the greedy sands,” she said, “who am I to 
counsel otherwise? Yonder is the pie.” 

Minnie crossed the clean white floor and tak¬ 
ing the pie from the window ledge where it sat 
cooling, divided it neatly. She fixed the two 
quarters on a plate from the cupboard and add¬ 
ing a fork, carried the whole to the boy. 

She was the embodiment of the spirit of 


72 


NAMELESS RIVER 


womanhood since the world was—selling her 
service to man for love. 

“Take it, Rod Stone,” she said. 

It was indicative of her race that she did not 
exact her payment first. It was sufficient that 
she serve. If the white man chose to pay, to 
keep his word, so much the better. 

Stone took the plate and put one arm about 
the splendid broad shoulders. 

Bending down he kissed the half-breed full on 
the lips—and for a second the black eyes glowed. 
Minnie Pine put a hand on his cheek with a 
caress infinitely soft. 

“Humph,” said Josefa, in English this time 
and pointedly, “I, too, have stood in the bend 
of a man’s arm—but mine was a full-blood 
porno. I did not live to cover my head and 
weep.” 

“Shut up, Josefa,” said the boy laughing 
again, “neither will Minnie, through me.” 

At that moment the door to the south part of 
the house opened noiselessly, and Kate Cathrew 
stood there scanning the group with her keen 
glance. 

“Stone,” she said coldly, “is this the best you 
can do to earn your wages! Get out with the 
men—go quick. Minnie, if I see any more of 
this you’ll go back where I got you. Josefa, 
what’s the matter with your rule out here! Do 


SHADOWS IN THE SHERIFF'S GLASS 73 


yon let all the morning be wasted without care?” 

Josef a gazed at her out of old eyes, calm with 
much looking on life, undisturbed. 

“Not always,” she answered, “but I, too, have 
been young. Minnie will work better for the 
kiss.” 

“Well,” said Kate, “you’d better see that she 
does.” 


CHAPTER VII 


THE SHADOWS THICKEN 

Old man Conlan was, as McKane had said, half 
crazy with the loss of his cattle. They were not 
so many, only a matter of some twenty-two 
head, but they meant a lot to him. He owned 
no patented land. He was merely a squatter 
in the lower fringes of the Upper Country 
around at the western end of Mystery Ridge 
where Rainbow Cliff stopped spectacularly. He 
lived with his wife in a disreputable old cabin 
andyWorked beyond his years and strength in 
the white fire of an ambition—a laudable ambi¬ 
tion, for he had a crippled son back East in 
college. He ran cattle in the hills and he knew 
every head of his brand to the last wobbly 
calf, an easy matter, since they were few. 

At the store in Cordova he told his woes to 
the countryside, and he had an attentive audi¬ 
ence, for his issue was theirs, and in a broader 
way. 

On a pleasant day in late June, the old man 
reiterated his grievance, pulling his long grey 
beard and flailing his gaunt arms in eloquent 
gesture. 

74 


THE SHADOWS THICKEN 


75 


“Whoever they be that lifted my steers,” he 
said grimly, “I damn their souls to hell! I’d 
damn their bodies, too, believe me, men, if I 
knowed ’em an’ could throw my gun on ’em. 
Shuritf, here, might take me to jail next minute 
an’ I’d go happy.” 

Selwood, sitting at a table desultorily playing 
cards, pushed back his hat and smiled. 

“Nobody’s going to take you to jail for killing 
a rustler, Jake,” he said, “we’d give you a 
reward instead. I’d give a lot to have the 
chance myself.” 

“Why don’t ye hunt fer it, then?” demanded 
Coni an testily, “ef I was shuriff-” 

“Yes?” said Selwood, laying his cards flat 
on the table for a moment and facing him, “what 
would you do if you were sheriff?” 

“I’d try, anyway,” said the old man, with a 
touch of scorn, “to find a trace of somethin’. 
I’d not stay on my own ranch an’ let th’ world 
go hang! I’d ride th’ hills, ’tenny rate.” 

A slow paleness crept into Selwood’s face, 
giving it an odd ashen hue, like a candle. He 
laid down his hand definitely and looked round 
at the ten or twelve men lounging in the room. 

Among them were Bos sick and one or two 
others who had suffered at the hands of the 
mysterious thieves of Nameless. 

“I know that Jake here voices the feeling 



76 


NAMELESS RIVER 


which has been growing against me for some 
time/’ he said evenly, “and this is as good a 
time as any to speak about it.” 

“You’re our sheriff, Price, an’ a damned good 
one,” spoke up Bossick loyally, “an’ I for one 
have nothing to say against you. I know—no 
one better—what you’re up against. I trailed 
my own stuff into that river with you, an’ I 
know that they simply vanished. I’ve done my 
own darndest to onravel th’ mystery, an’ 1 can’t 
see what more any man’d do, sheriff or not!” 

Selwood smiled at him. 

“Thanks, John,” he said, “I’ll not forget that. 
But I hate to have my friends think I’m laying 
down on the job. I haven’t said anything about 
what I’ve been doing, preferring to wait until 
I had something to show, but that time seems 
far off still. This is the smoothest work I ever 
saw, baffling-. I don’t stand to simple rea¬ 

son. We know beef cattle don’t fly—and yet that 
seems the only way they could have got out of 
the country. They go—and they leave no trail. 
I know, for I’ve ridden the hills, Jake, notwith¬ 
standing, in dragnet fashion. Ask my wife how 
many nights I’ve slept at home since Ae last 
raid. Take a look at my horse out there? He’s 
hard as iron and lean as a rail. And there’s 
another at home that looks just like him. If I 
haven’t found anything it’s not because I haven’t 
traveled.” 



THE SHADOWS THICKEN 


77 


Several men stirred and one spoke. 

“I don’t think many of us blame you, Price,” 
he said, “but it does gall a feller to lose stock 
an’ have to stand helpless.” 

“And how do you think it galls me to fail to 
catch the lifters?” asked Selwood quietly. “It’s 
my job—my—my honor.” 

He picked up his cards again and turned to 
the table. 

‘ ‘ But no matter what is said, or thought, about 
me,” he finished, “every day of my further hold 
on office will be given over to the same hunt— 
until I find what I’m after, or give up as a 
failure.” 

Hink Helsey, the bearded man who had sat on 
the store porch that day of the fight between 
Selwood and McKane, now dropped the forward 
legs of his chair to the floor and sat up, doubling 
his knife and putting it away in a pocket. 

“Sheriff,” he said, “I’m stackin’ on you, 
along with Bossick. I think you’ll ketch yer 
game—an’ I think you’re already on th’ right 
trail.” 

McKane looked at him as if he could kill him 
and his tongue itched to flail both men, the 
speaker and Selwood, for he knew that they 
meant the same thing. 

There was one listener, however, who said 
nothing and whose sharp eyes scanned each face 



78 


NAMELESS RIVER 


in the room with painstaking thoroughness. This 
was Sud Provine, a. rider from Sky Line who 
had come down for the mail. 

The Sky Line men never stayed long at 
Cordova, except as they came now and again for 
a night at play. 

When the talk had changed from the all- 
absorbing topic of the stolen cattle, this worthy 
rose, took his sack and departed. 

Several pairs of eyes followed him, but no one 
spoke of him. 

There was something about the Sky Line 
riders which seemed to preclude discussion in 
the open. 

Price Selwood had told the truth. 

There was not a night of the long warming 
weeks of spring which had not seen him, a 
shadow in the shadows, riding the slopes and 
fiats of Nameless. Sometimes he sat for hours 
high on some shoulder of the hills watching the 
bowl beneath with the moonlight sifting down in 
a silver flood. Again, when the nights were 
dark, he rode up under the very lip of Rainbow 
Cliff and watched and listened, his every sense 
as acute as a panther’s. There were times when 
he sat for half a night within hailing distance of 
Kate Cathrew’s stronghold, and once her dogs, 
winding him, yammered excitedly. This brought 


THE SHADOWS THICKEN 79 

out a stealthy listener, whose only betrayal was 
the different note in the dogs’ voices. 

But someone was there in the darkness of the 
veranda, and Selwood outstayed him, whoever he 
was—outstayed the animals’ excitement, their 
curiosity, and left with the hint of coming dawn 
to drop back down the slants and sleep the day 
away at home. 

Night again saw him travelling, and always his 
one obsession travelled with him—the hard-and- 
fast presentiment that Kate Cathrew was the 
tangible element in the smoke-screen of mystery 

which rode the country. 

It was not long after the talk at the store, per¬ 
haps a week or such a matter, when he got 
the first faint inkling of a clue. It was scarcely 
more, yet it served to sharpen his wits to a 
razor edge. It was not moonlight, neither was 
it clear dark of the moon, but that vague time 
in between when a pale sickle sailed the vault 
and shed its half-light to make shadows ghostly 
and substance illusive. 

Selwood had ridden all the lower reaches of 
Nameless that week, had skirted the western 
end of Mystery and even trailed far into the 
Deep Hearts themselves in an effort to find 
something, anything, which might tell him he 
was at least on the right track. 

He hardly knew what it was for which he 
searched— perhaps an old trail, perhaps a secret 


80 


NAMELESS RIVER 


branding fire. But lie had found nothing. So 
he fell back on his night riding again, and as 
always this led him instinctively into the region 
of Sky Line Ranch. He had crossed the river 
near the head of Nance Allison’s tilled land, and 
had sat a moment peering down the length of the 
brown stretch where the rows of young corn 
were springing bravely. 

It pleased the sheriff to see this promise of a 
fair crop, for he knew the girl, and had known 
her father for an honest, straighforward man. 
The hard effort of the family to get along was 
known to all the ranchers and earned its mead 
of admiration in a land where work was re¬ 
garded almost as a religion. 

Nameless could condone wrong, but not shift¬ 
lessness. 

And this girl was not shiftless. 

Instead her sharp management and her heavy 
labor were matters of note. So the sheriff took 
special cognizance of the look of her big field of 
corn and nodded in pleased satisfaction. 

“Too bad she lost those six steers,” he told 
himself, “they’d have helped a lot in her year’s 
furnishing. Game young pair.” 

Then he moved on up into the blue-brush that 
clothed the slants by the river and made for the 
heights. 

Three hours later he was sitting sidewise in 
his saddle beside the well-worn trail which led 


THE SHADOWS THICKEN 


81 


up to Sky Line. He was not too close, being 
ensconced in a little thicket of maple -about fifty 
yards back and above. He had spent many an 
hour here before. 

It afforded a good view of the trail, and better 
still, a splendid chance to hear. 

Twice in the last month he had heard and 
seen a bunch of Kate’s riders coming home from 
Cordova where they had gone to gamble. But 
this fact had been unproductive of anything 
sinister. 

They had ridden boldly, as behooves innocent 
men, their horses climbing slowly with rattle of 
spur and bit-chain, the squeak and whine of 
saddles. 

Selwood had reached a hand to his horse’s 
nose to preclude its neighing, and had seen 
them pass on up and disappear. 

Next day # he had unostentatiously made sure 
that these men had played at McKane’s—in 
both instances. 

And now he waited again, seemingly in a 
foolish quest. 

He knew it would seem so to an observer. It 
seemed so to him when he regarded it with 
reason. But reason was not actuating him. It 
was instinct—hunch. 

So Sheriff Price Selwood—whom Kate Cath- 
rew quite frankly hated—sat in the darkness 
and watched and listened beside her trail, a lost 




8 2 


NAMELESS RIVER 


little thread on the vast expanse of the wooded 
slopes. 

A long hour passed, filled with the soundful 
silence of the wilderness. He heard an owl call 
and call in mournful quaver from far below, an¬ 
other answer. He knew that some hunting ani¬ 
mal was abroad in the manzanita to his right, 
for he caught *a thud and rustle, the pitiful, shrill 
scream of a rabbit. A night bird gave out a 
sweet, alert note from time to time and -an insect 
drummed in a pine tree. 

And then he heard, or thought he did, another 
sound. 

It was so far off and faint that he could not 
be sure, and for a time he fancied he might have 
been mistaken. Then it came again—the crack 
of hoofs on stone, and once more silence. 

He held his breath, listening. 

Once again he heard that cracking of hoofs— 
and this time he knew them for cloven hoofs. A 
cattle-brute was coming up the trail toward him. 
There was nothing in that fact to cause undue 
excitement—except one thing. 

Under ordinary conditions that steer would 
be lying in some snug glade chewing its cud. In 
no natural case would it be coming up a trail at 
a smart pace—with a horse behind it! 

And there was a horse behind it. 

Selwood heard now distinctly the quieter step 
of a saddle horse. 


THE SHADOWS THICKEN 


83 


He leaned forward, gripping his own mount's 
nose, and strained his eyes in the illusive half- 
light. Presently he saw what he knew he would 
see—a rider, driving one lone steer up the trail 
to Sky Line. 

It was too dark to see anything else—who the 
man was, or what manner of steer he drove, or 
what horse he rode. 

And though he waited till the cooler breath of 
the night warned him of coming day he saw 
nothing more. 

He spent half the next day at Cordova, listen¬ 
ing, but though several cattlemen came in there 
was nothing said of a loss among them. 

But the day after old man Conlan was in and 
fit for durance. 

He threw his ragged hat on McKane’s floor 
and jumped on it, reviling the law and all it 
stood for. 

“Two more!" he bellowed with a break of 

tears in his old voice. “By -! ef this ain’t 

th’ limit! I only had sixteen left an’ th’ two 
best out th’ lot come up missin’ this mornin’! 
Ain’t no trail agin. They’s tracks all over, sure 
—but th’ other stock is on th’ slope an’ this 
time there just ain’t nothin’!” 

Barman, from up on Nameless, was at the 
store and he and McKane tried to calm the old 
man down, though the cattleman’s own blood 
was roiled. 




84 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“ It is a damned dirty shame! ’ ’ he said in¬ 
dignantly, “have you told Selwood?” 

“Him?” grunted Conlan. “Hell!” 

“He’s here now,” said McKane, “just getting 
down. ’’ 

Price Selwood entered in time to hear the last 
of the old man’s tirade, to catch the drift of 
what had happened, and his eyes glowed for a 
second. 

He laid a hand on Conlan’s arm. 

“Jake,” he said, “hold in a little longer.” 

“Hold hell!” said the other shaking off the 
hand, “I’ll be ready for the county house in 
Bement in another three months!” 

“I don’t think so, Jake,” said the sheriff 
quietly, “tell me — were those two steers 
branded?” 

“Course. Plain as day. J.C. on right hip, 
swaller-fork in left ear. One was roan an’ 
tother a bay-spot.” 

Selwood turned without a word, left the store, 
mounted and rode away. 

“Jest like him!” said Conlan bitterly, “goes 
a’ridin’ off all secret-like an’ snappy—’s if he 
knowed somethin’ or wanted us to think he did.” 

“Mebby he does,” said Barman. 

Sheriff Selwood rode straight up to Sky Line 
Ranch. It took him a good three hours, going 
fast, and it was far after noon when he pulled 


THE SHADOWS THICKEN 


85 


rein at Kate Cathrew’s corral gate and called 
for her. 

She came, frowning and inhospitable. 

‘ 1 What do you want of me?” she asked 

coldly. 

“Nothing,” said Selwood, “except to tell you 
I’m going to take a look around your place.” 

“Look and be damned!” she flared. “What do 
you think you’ll find?” 

“Well—” he drawled, smiling, “I might find 
a couple of steers branded with J.C. on the 
right hip.” 

For one fraction of a second the black eyes 
burning sombrely on his flickered, lost their di¬ 
rect steadiness. 

Selwood laughed, though he was alert in 
every nerve and his right hand was on his thigh 
near to the butt of the gun that hung there. 
Caldwell and several other riders stood close, 
their eyes on him. He thought of John Allison, 
found dead at the foot of Rainbow Cliff, to all 
intents the victim of accident. 

“What’s the matter, Kate?” he asked point¬ 
edly. “Suffering from nerves? Didn’t think 
you had any.” 

And he turned to ride over toward the corral. 

Kate’s flaming orbs sought the face of her 
foreman. 

“Go with him,” they telegraphed, and Cald¬ 
well went. 


86 


NAMELESS RIVER 


Selwood covered every foot of the home place 
of Sky Line in a grim silence, looking for any¬ 
thing. He looked into corral and stable, brush 
pasture and branding pen, but found no sign of 
the stolen steers. 

When at last he rode away it was straight 
down along the face of Rainbow Cliff toward the 
west. He did not know why he skirted the rock- 
face, since it was hard going. The earth at the 
foot of the great precipice was slanting and 
covered with the loose stone that was forever 
falling from the weathered wall. It was rough 
on his horse’s feet, but he held him to it—and 
he was surprised to find that Caldwell was still 
with him, and riding inside next to the Cliff. 

Think I need escort, Caldwell!” he asked 
sarcastically. 

“Mebby as much as we need spyin’ on,” re¬ 
turned the other and rode along. 

Three miles further on the sheriff turned 
down the mountain and the foreman reined up, 
sitting in silence to watch him out of sight. 

”Wings is right,” said Selwood to himself, 
“those steers must have them—but that woman’s 
eyes were guilty, or I’m a liar.” 

At the same moment Caldwell was heaving a 
long breath of relief as he pulled his horse 
around and headed home. 

“This here sheriff is gettin’ a little bit in¬ 
quisitive,” he thought, then grinned sardonically. 


THE SHADOWS THICKEN 


87 


“But if he never gets any wiser than he is 
now he won’t set anything on fire. In fifteen 
feet of th’ Flange an’ never saw a thing! Holy 
smoke! Some sheriff! An’ yet—can’t blame 
him—the Flange’d fool th’ devil himself.” 



CHAPTER VIII 


BRAND FAIR 

Nance Allison went back to Blue Stone Canon. 
It was as inevitable as the recurrent sun that 
she should do so. Her whole nature was stirred 
to tne depths by what she had found in the 
lonely gorge. 

The mystery of the thing lured her, set her 
young mind hunting for its solution. And the 
little ragged boy with his weazened face and 
bright brown eyes tugged at her tender heart 
irresistibly. 

He was a beautiful, small creature despite bis 
thinness and his poverty. There was intelligence 
in the broad forehead under the long, loose, un¬ 
kempt, dark curls, capacity for affection in the 
mobile lips and a terrible hunger for love in 
the whole little face. 

For four days, “hand-running” as her mother 
said, the girl went to the canon. The friendship 
ripened with tropical speed, so that she need not 
search for her quarry now, but found it coming 
to meet her, peering around this boulder, watch¬ 
ing from that vantage point. 

88 


BRAND FAIR 


89 


When she held out her arms to the child these 
last two times he had come leaping into them to 
cling to her neck in delirious gladness, while 
the sedate Collie, fast friend by this time and 
traitor to his sacred charge, fawned on her 
knee. 

But on the fifth golden day trouble was in the 
atmosphere. ' * 

Sonny came with drooping head and a pucker 
of sorrow in his small brows. 

“Why, what’s the matter with my little man?” 
said the girl, kneeling and holding him off to 
scan him searchingly. “Tell Nance, Sonny. What 
is it?” 

And Sonny, dissolved in tears upon the in¬ 
stant, hiding his face in Nance’s neck. 

“I—I had—” he hiccoughed, “to—to tell— 
Brand—a a—lie! A nawful lie! And Brand, he 
—hates a liar!” 

“A lie! Why, how—why-” 

“He found your horse’s tracks down the 
canon and—he asked me if I saw—any—any one 
strange,” wept the child. 

Nance sat down and took the boy in her lap. 

The thing was coming to a climax. 

She was meddling with someone’s private 
business, of that she was sure, both from her 
own reasoning and her mother’s warning, and 
maybe she had no right to do so, but her sweet 
mouth set itself into stubborn lines as she fell 



90 


NAMELESS RIVER 


to smoothing the little head, damp with the 
ardours of its owner’s remorse. 

4 4 Stop crying, honey, ’’ she viieedled softly, 
44 and let Nance rock you like this.” 

She tucked her heels under her thighs and, 
holding the child in the comfortable lap thus 
formed, began to sway her body back and forth 
for all the world as if she sat in a cushioned 
rocker. 

What is there about a rocking woman with a 
child’s head on her breast to soothe the sorrows 
of the world? 

Tne swaying motion soon checked Sonny’s 
sobs and she fell to singing to him, adding her 
voice to the mysterious voices of the canon in 
the lilt and fall of an old camp-meeting hymn 
brought forth from her memories of Missouri. 
And presently, when its spell had soothed the 
tumult, she raised him up and fed him cookies 
made for the occasion, a sugary bribe if ever 
there was one. 

Dirk, too, was not averse to this shameful se¬ 
duction, his pale eyes glowing with desire. 

44 Tell me, Sonny,” said Nance, 44 does Brand 
cook for you?” 

44 Sure,” said the child, 44 sure he does—but 
he’s gone all day and we get awful hungry ’fore 
he comes at night.” 

44 d should think so!” thought Nance grimly, 

44 two meals a day! When a little child should 


BRAND FAIR 91 

eat whenever it’s hungry, to grow! This precious 
Brand is about due for an investigation.” 

Aloud she said: 

“ Sonny, I’m going to stay with you all day 
—and I’m going to wait and see Brand.” 

The boy was aghast at this statement, and it 
was plain from the distress he showed that it 
was unprecedented. 

“If you do,” he said miserably, “maybe Brand 
will take me away again and—and I’ll never see 
you any more.” 

But Nance had other plans and she shook her 
head. 

That was a lovely day. It was warmer than 
usual, since summer was stepping down the 
slopes of the lonely hills, and the strangely as¬ 
sorted trio in Blue Stone Canon enjoyed it to 
the full. 

They explored far up the narrow defile, the 
child holding to the girl's hand and skipping 
happily, the Collie pacing beside them, a step to 

the left, two steps to the rear. 

They watched the trout waving in the sunlit 
pools at noon, and waded in a riffle to find barna¬ 
cles under rocks that Nance might show Sonny 
the tiny creature which built such a wonderful 
little house of infinitesimal sticks and mortar. 

But as the sun dropped over toward the west 
and the shadows deepened in the great gorge, 


92 


NAMELESS RIVER 


Nance began to feel the loneliness, the cold si¬ 
lence, the oppression of the unpeopled wilder¬ 
ness. 

The voices seemed to raise their tones, to be¬ 
come menacing. More and more she realized 
what it must mean to a child left alone in the 
canon, and a deep and rising indignation swelled 
within her. 

This Brand fellow, now—he must be cold¬ 
blooded as they made them, cruel—no, Sonny 
loved him. He could not be exactly that. 

But what sort of man could he be? 

She held the child close in her warm arms as 
she rocked again and pondered the problem. She 
did not know what she intended to say to him, 
once she faced him, but of one thing she was 
certain—he would know, in no uncertain terms, 
indeed, what a monstrous thing it was to leave 
a child alone in Blue Stone Canon—alone, to 
listen to its mysterious voices, to feel its chill 
and its menace of shadows! 

Why, it was a wonder the little mind did not 
crack with strain, the small heart break with 
fear! 

Unconsciously she hugged Sonny tighter, mak¬ 
ing of her body, as it were, a bulwark between 
him and all harm, seeming to challenge the 
world for his possession. It was astonishing 
how the child had crept into her heart in these 


BRAND FAIR 


93 


\ 


few short days—how hungrily her arms had 
closed about him. She had made his cause her 
own high-handedly—perhaps without reason. 

She was thinking of these things when the 
Collie barked sharply and leaped away in wel¬ 
come. Nance flung a startled glance over her 
shoulder—and got to her feet, sliding the boy 
down beside her, an arm still about his ragged 
shoulders. 

A man stood at the corner of the jut of stone 
beyond the pool. 

He was tall, somewhere around six feet, a 
horseman born by his build, narrow of hip and 
flat of thigh. He was clad in garments almost 
as much the worse for wear as Sonny’s—a blue 
flannel shirt and corduroy tucked into boots. 
But Nance saw in that first swift glance that 
these habiliments were different from those of 
their like which Mclvane sold in Cordova, that 
seemed made for the man who wore them, so 
perfectly had they fitted him once. 

Under a peaked sombrero with a chin-strap 
run in a bone slide, a pair of dark eyes bored 
into Nance’s, unsmiling. A very dark face, 
almost Indian in clean-cut feature and contour, 
with repressed lips and thin nostrils, completed 
the picture. 

The newcomer did not speak, but stood hold¬ 
ing the bit of a handsome, huge, black horse. 

“Brand!” called the boy, “Oh, Brand!” 


94 


NAMELESS RIVER 


At that name Nance Allison found her tongue. 

‘'I’ve been waiting for you,” she said calmly, 
“I’m glad you’ve come.” 

“Yes?” he said in a singularly deep, sweet 
voice. 

That voice disconcerted Nance upon the in¬ 
stant, stole some of her tire, so to speak. She 
had been ready to tackle him on the issue at 
once, to tight, if necessary, with a flood of rea¬ 
sons and protests against his treatment of 
Sonny. 

Now, suddenly, she felt a vague sense of hav¬ 
ing intruded, of meddling with another’s affairs. 
But she was not one to back down from any 
lighteous stand—and Sonny’s cause was right¬ 
eous in every sense, it seemed to her. 

So she gazed steadily into the direct dark 
eyes and nodded decidedly. 

“Yes I am,” she repeated, “I—want to talk 
to you.” 

The man dropped the rein over the black’s 
head and came forward a step or two. 

“Quite a rare experience,” he said, smiling, 
as he removed his hat and ran his brown Angers 
through the thick black hair that stood up from 
his sweated forehead, “it’s been a long time 

since any woman has wanted to talk to us—eh 
Sonny?” ’ 

“But—Oh, she talks sweet, Brand!” cried the 
child eagerly, “and she—holds me on her lap!” 



BRAND FAIR 


95 


At the profound awe in the small voice the 
man’s face grew quickly grave. 

“We must be pretty far gone as vagabonds!” 
he said, “that makes me think what a woman’s 
love must mean to a child. You have been a 
gift of God, dropped out of the blue to Sonny, 
Miss Allison, and I ought to thank you.” 

“Why—you—you know who I am!” cried the 
girl, astounded. 

“Certainly. And I know how long you’ve 
been coming here to the canon. I know where 
you live, too—down on the flats by the river.” 

His slow, amused smile at her evident discom¬ 
fiture was engaging. It disarmed Nance, made 
her feel more than ever an intruder. 

“I know what lost waifs you must think us 
—and you are partly right. We are. I’ve 
watched you with Sonny twice, and I have not 
removed our camp—if such it could be called 
—because I didn’t think you’d talk.” 

“I haven’t,” said Nance, “except to my own 

family.” 

“Since you have found us out,” he went on, 
“I shall tell you that Sonny is not the neglected 
little cast-off that you must naturally think him. 
I have hidden him here for a purpose. We have 
a purpose, the boy and I, and we have traveled 
many miles in its pursuit. We do seem mysteri- 
ous —p u t we’re not so greatly so, after all. I 


96 


NAMELESS RIVER 


try to care for him as best I may when I must 
be so much away from him. If it wasn’t for 
Dirk I couldn’t leave him as I do.” 

“He’s well protected,” said Nance, “I used 
Sonny himself to betray the do g. I couldn’t do 
otherwise. ’ ’ 

“I know something of it—Sonny didn’t tell 
me, but I saw the signs of your scuffle. It was 
printed plain in the sand and shale.” 

Sonny didn’t tell,” said Nance regret- 
fully, “and I made him a liar—when I didn’t 
mean to. I asked him not to tell you that I’d 
been here. I was afraid you’d take him away. 
I didn’t think you’d ask him point blank.” 

I ve taught the boy not to talk,” said the 
man —“it’s a vital necessity to us.” 

He doesn t. I couldn’t find out a thing, for 
all I wheedled shamelessly, except that you were 
Brand, and that you two ride always on Dia,- 
mond there.” 

“My name is Fair, Miss Allison—Brand Fair, 
and that is Sonny’s name also. But—we don’t 
tell it to strangers.” 

He smiled at her again, a slow creasing of the 
lines about his lips, a pleasant narrowing of his 
eyes. 

“Then I—” there was an elemental quality of 
gladness in Nance’s voice, though she was utterly 
unconscious of it, “am not a stranger?” 


BRAND FAIR 97 

“You are Sonny’s friend,” he replied, “and 
we give you our trust.” 

The girl swallowed once and tightened her 
hold on the child’s thin shoulders. There was 
something infinitely pathetic, infinitely intriguing 
in this situation, and it gripped her strongly. 

“I—thank you,” she said awkwardly, “I’ll 
not betray it.” 

“I’m sure you won’t,” said Brand Fair, “and 
for the present, if you’ll accept us at our face 
value, we’ll be mighty glad—eh, Sonny?” 

“I’ve been glad all the time,” said Sonny 
fervently, “and so’s Dirk.” 

“Ingrates!” laughed the man. “Here I’ve 
shared my poor substance with you two for—a 
very long time—and at the first bribe of meat 
and kisses you turn me down cold!” 

“Oh!” cried Nance, flushing, “you know all 
about us!” 

“It’s my business to know all about one who 
invades my solitude, isn’t it?” 

But here Sonny could stand Brand’s badinage 
no longer and pulling away from Nance he ran 
to him, and clinging about his knees, begged for¬ 
giveness for the lie whose memory troubled his 
clear little soul. 

The man touched the unkempt small head with 
a tender hand. “Sure, old-timer,” he said 
gently; “that’s all right. A gentleman must lie 


98 


NAMELESS RIVER 


when a lady commands—he couldn’t do any¬ 
thing else.” 

“You make me feel like a sinner!” said Nance, 
“I hope you’ll forgive me, too.” 

The man took Sonny’s hand as she made ready 
to leave and turned down the canon with her. 

“We’ll form a guard-of-lionor in token of 
that,” he said, “and in seeing you off we’ll 
invite you back again. Sonny would miss you 
now, you know. But just remember always, 
Miss Allison, please—that in a way we’re keep¬ 
ing out of sight—until—until some time in an 
uncertain future. Consider us a secret, will 
you not!” 

Nance Allison rode home to Nameless with her 
head in a whirl. Life, that had seemed to pass 
her by in her plodding labor and her patient 
bearing of trouble, had suddenly touched her 
with a flaming finger. 

She had found mystery and affection in the 
silence of Blue Stone Canon—and now there 
was something else, a strange vibrant element, 
thin as ether and intangible as wind, a sense of 
elation, of excitement. She felt a surge within 
her of some nameless fire, an uplift, a peculiar 
gladness. 

“Mammy,” she said straightly when she 
stepped in at the cabin door, “I’ve found the 
man! ’ ’ 



BRAND FAIR 


99 


“Whew! Some statement, Sis!” cried Bud 
as he shambled across the sill behind her. 
“What’s he like!” 

“Why—I don’t just know. He’s tall—and he 
wears clothes that have once been fine—and he 
has the straightest eyes I ever saw. His name’s 
p a i r —Brand Fair—and he’s some relation to 

Sonny, for that is his name, too.” 

“I hope you gave him that piece of your mind 

you laid out to!” pursued Bud. 

“Why, no—no,” said Nance wonderingly, look¬ 
ing at him with half-seeing eyes, “I don’t— 
believe—I did!” 

Mrs. Allison looked up from her work of get¬ 
ting supper at the stove. 

“I mind me,” she said, “of the first time I 

ever set eyes on your Pappy. I was gom’ to 
frail him good because he’d run his. saddle 
horse a-past th’ cart I was drivin’, kickin’ a 
terrible dust all over my Sunday dress it was 
camp-meetin’ at Sharfell’s Corners—an’ then 
—he laughed an’ talked to me an I foigot my 
mad spell. His eyes jest coaxed th’ wrath out 

of my heart—then an’ ever after.” 

“Why, Mammy,” said Nance, “that’s just 

what happened here! This man talked to me 
and I forgot my mad spell! I never said a 
thing I’d stayed to say! And I promised to 
keep the secret of him and Sonny in the canon. 



>» 

> 


o 

0 


100 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“H’m!” said Bud as he sidled into his chair 
and smoothed his bronze hair, wet from his ablu¬ 
tions at the well, “H’m—Mammy, why’d you 
tell her that? I wish you hadn’t.” 

“Why?” said Nance, but her brother shook 
his head. 


CHAPTER IX 


GOLDEN MAGIC 

Something had happened to Nance Allison. For 
the first time in her healthy young life sleep 
refused to visit her. Even her terrible grief at 
the death of her father had given way to sleep 
at last and she had forgotten her tragedy for a 
blessed time. 

But on the night following her interview with 
the strange man of the canon she was wide 
awake till dawn. 

She was not uncomfortable. She did not 
think she was ill. But an odd inner warmth 
surged all through her, a pleasant fire ran in her 
veins. She lay in her bed with her hands be¬ 
neath her head and thought over and over each 
phase of the day she had spent with Sonny, each 
incident that had led up to the appearance of 
Brand Fair. Then, with a peculiar delight, she 
went over his every word, every movement. She 
remembered the look of his brown hand on the 
black horse’s bit, the tilt of his hat, the way the 
chin-strap lay along his lean, dark cheek. She 
recalled the direct glance of his eyes, the slow 

smile that creased his lips’ corners. 

101 


102 


NAMELESS RIVER 


He was like no other man she had ever seen. 

There was a sweetness in the tones of his 
deep voice, a sense of restfulness and strength 
about him. He seemed to fit in with her dreams 
of the best things to be had in life—like lace 
curtains and the rag carpet which was slowly 
growing in her Mammy’s hands. 

His name, too—Brand Fair. She liked the 
sound of it. 

And it was Sonny’s name. Suddenly she sat 
bolt upright, staring at the darkness. Fair— 
Sonny Fair! Could it be that Brand was Sonny’s 
father? For some inexplicable reason a cold 
hand seemed to clutch her heart, a feeling of 
disaster to encompass her. 

“Now why” she asked herself slowly, “should 
that make any difference? Wouldn’t he be just as 
nice—just as pleasant to talk to?” 

She sat a long time holding her two braids in 
her hands, twirling the ends around her fingers, 
thinking. 

Why was she so pleased with this stranger, 
she wondered? 

She had seen many men in her life—there 
were the cowboys from the Upper Country whom 
she saw at Cordova, nearly every time she went 
there, there was McKane, and Sheriff Price 
Selwood. 

She liked the sheriff. He was a kindly man 
under his stern exterior, she knew. His eyes 




GOLDEN MAGIC 


103 


were direct, like Fair’s somewhat, and he had 
the same seeming of quiet strength. He had 
been at the cabin quite a few times after her 
father’s death, asking all sorts of questions 
about his manner of life, his experience in the 
hills, and so forth. Yes—Fair was a little like 
the sheriff, only more so—oh, very much more 
so—quiet, steady, one whose word you would 
take without question. 

He was different, that was all—different. 

He had not always lived in the hills, that was 
certain. She lay down once more and tried to 
sleep, but her eyes would not obey her will. 
They came open each time she closed them to 
see this man standing at the jut of stone, his 
hand on the black’s bit—at the pool by the cave 
below where he bade her good-bye—still there 
when she looked back from far down the canon. 

She heard Old John, the big plymouth-rock 
rooster, crow for midnight from his perch in 
the rafters of the stable—and again at false- 
dawn a little while before daylight. 

4 1 Well, I’d like to know what ails me,” she 
thought to herself as she got up with the first 
grey shafts above Mystery Ridge, “I never 
stayed awake all night in my life before.” 

It was indicative of the great good health and 
strength there was in her that she felt no ill 
effects from the unusual experience. She brushed 
her hair and pinned it neatly around her head 



104 


NAMELESS RIVER 


in a shining coronet, put on a clean denim dress 
from the clothes-press in the corner, laced up 
the heavy shoes she had to wear about her man’s 
work, and went softly out to light the kitchen 
tire, to draw a fresh pail of water and to stand 
lost in rapt adoration of the pageant of coming 
day. She washed her face and hands in the 
basin and came blooming from the cold water, 
content with her lot, happy to be alive—and to 
know that Brand and Sonny Fair were in Blue 
Stone Canon, and that they called themselves her 
friends. 

She had never had a special friend before—not 
since those far-back little-girl days in Missouri. 

“Mammy,” she said at breakfast, “I never 
slept a wink last night. I kept thinking about 
Sonny and Brand ail the time—wondering why 
they’re hiding, and what relation they are, and 
why they live so hard and poor like. It seems 
dreadful, don’t it?” 

‘ 4 Seems funny, if you ask me,” said Bud 
shortly, “ maybe this Brand feller knows some¬ 
thing of all this rustling that’s been going on 
up and down Nameless.” 

Nance laid down her knife and fork and looked 
at him. 

4 ‘Of all things, Bud!” she said, “it’s not like 
you to cast the first stone. And you’ve never 
seen this man’s face, or you wouldn’t say that.” 

“Well, I’m not so sure of it,” returned the 


GOLDEN MAGIC 


105 


boy, “I hate to see you take up so with a 
stranger.’’ 

“I trust your feelin’ for him, Nance,” said 
Mrs. Allison, “somehow there’s somethin’ in a 
woman’s heart when she looks into a man’s eyes, 
most times, which sets th’ stamp on him for 
good or bad. Seems like it’s seventh sense 
which th’ Almighty gives us woman-kind for a 
safeguard. I trust it.” 

“I guess I do, too, Mammy,” said Nance, 
“leastways I felt to trust Brand Fair the first 
minute I laid eyes on him. He’s different.” 

Mrs. Allison said no more, but she was think¬ 
ing back over the long years to that camp-meet¬ 
ing time when she had meant to “frail” the 
stranger, young John Allison, and how his smil¬ 
ing eyes had coaxed her angry heart to peace 
a peace which stayed with her always, through 
hardship and poverty, through many Western 
moves, and which softened now the sorrow of 
his absence. John Allison had seemed to her 
“different” also. 

For some subconscious reason Nance stayed 
away from the canon for several days. She 
busied herself with odd jobs about the place. 
She mended the wire fence around the big flat 
where the wild hay was waving thick, its green 
floor flowing with sheets of silver where the 
light winds swept, and gave the harness a thor¬ 
ough oiling. 



106 


NAMELESS RIVER 


As she sat in the barn door running the 
straps back and forth through her hands she 
cast smiling eyes out at her field of corn. 

“It’s going to be a big crop, Bud,” she said, 
“ there ’ll be three ears on every stalk and 
they’re mighty strong. We’ll pull the suckers 
next week and cultivate it again in ten days 
more—and you just watch it grow and wave 
its green banners.” 

“It’s already waving them,” said Bud work¬ 
ing beside her, “it sure looks fine.” 

There was the pride of possession in the two 
young faces, the quiet joy of satisfaction in 
simple work well done and its reward. 

“I hope,” said the girl dreamily, “I hope, 
Bud, that there’ll be enough left over after we 
pay McKane to get the carpet woven. Mammy’s 
got nearly enough balls already, and we can 
take it in to Bement in the early fall and go 
back after it about two weeks later.” 

Bud’s eyes sparkled. 

“Gee! But that would be good,” he said wist¬ 
fully, “a regular holiday. I’d like to see a 
town again.” 

“One trip I’d go with you and the next we’d 
make Mammy go. It’d set her up, give her 
something to think about all winter,” planned 
Nance, “she don’t get out like we do.” 

So they looked ahead to the meagre joys of 
their poor life and were happy. 



GOLDEN MAGIC 


107 


Two days later Nance again rode Buckskin 
to the canon, and this time she went in the 
afternoon. 

The eager gladness of the child, the vociferous 
welcome of the Collie, gave her a feeling of guilt 
that she had stayed away so long, and she made 
glowing holiday with her cookies, her songs and 
her laughter, so that the hours flew on magic 
wings—and Brand came home before they were 
even beginning to look for him. 

He came upon them silently, as he had done 
before, and Nance sprang up in confusion. 

“How do you always get here so quietly?’’ 
she asked, “I never heard a sound.” 

“Look at Diamond,” he replied smilingly, 
“we always follow the water. A stream leaves 
no tell-tale tracks. Even Sonny can swim like 
a fish.” 

Nance sobered quickly. 

A disturbing thought of Bud’s remark about 
rustlers came into her mind—and she thought 
of those ninety steers of Bossick’s driven into 
Nameless and whisked out of the country. Of 
course ninety head of cattle couldn’t go down 
the big river indefinitely—but she didn t like 

the suggestion. 

“No,” she said, “it don’t. That’s what the 

rustlers seem to think.” 

She looked him square in the eyes, and was 

satisfied. 


108 


NAMELESS RIVER 


There was no consciousness in those smiling 
depths, not the faintest flicker of a shadow. 
Whatever mystery might attach to him, this man 
felt nothing personal in her speech. 

And so she sat down again with Sonny in her 
lap and Brand sat down opposite, and they fell 
to talking there in the whispering silence, while 
the late sun gilded the high blade of the rim- 
rock and the cool shadows deepened in the 
gorge. It was strange fairy-land to Nance, and 
all the inner country of her spirit shone and 
sparkled under a fire of stars. She had never 
felt so before—never known the half-tremulous 
excitement which filled her now. 

When this man spoke she listened avidly, her 
blue eyes on his face. He seemed the visible 
embodiment of all she had missed in life, the 
cities, the open seas, the distant lands and the 
pleasures. As he sat before her in his worn 
garments which might have denoted a poverty 
as great as hers, he seemed rich beyond com¬ 
pare, a potentate of the world. He smoked 
small brown cigarettes which he made from a 
little old leather pouch and rolled with the 
dexterity of long usage, and he buried each stub 
carefully in the sand. 

He was a marvellous person, indeed, and 
Nance regarded him in a sort of awe. 

“I’ve been in to Cordova a time or two,” he 
said casually, “and have met the sheriff and 


GOLDEN MAGIC 


109 


several others. To them I’m a prospector. 
There seems to be a lot of unrest in the country. ’ ’ 

“It's the rustlers,” said Nance, “a lot of 
cattle have disappeared, and some folks blame 
the sheriff. I don’t. I think he does all he can. 
It’s a great mystery. We lost some ourselves. 
I’ve ridden myself down looking for them, and 
so has my brother, Bud, and we’ve never round 
a hoof-mark.” 

“Strange. Isn’t there any one you might 
suspect in these hills'?” 

“I’ve heard that Sheriff Selwood is watching 
Kate Cathrew, but the others laugh at him.” 

Fair’s eyes narrowed just a fraction of an 
inch. 

“Cathrew!” he said. “Who’s she!” 

“The woman who owns Sky Line Ranch,” re¬ 
turned Nance grimly, “and my enemy.” 

“What! Your enemy! How’s that!” 

“Simple as two and two. She’s a cattle 
queen—they call her Cattle Kate Cathrew and 
she runs her stock on the slopes of Mystery. 
She’s rich—lives in a wonderful house up under 
the edge of Rainbow Cliff, and rides a beautiful 
horse. Her saddle alone is worth my team and 
harness—my new harness that I had to buy to 
take the place of the one that somebody cut to 
pieces in the night. She wants our land our 
great tine flats on Nameless that d feed her cat¬ 
tle through. She’s always wanted it. fohe 


110 


NAMELESS RIVER 


tried to scare my father off, and since he was 
found dead at the foot of Rainbow she’s tried to 
scare us off—Bud and Mammy and I. But we 
don’t scare,” she finished bitterly, “not worth 
a cent.” 

Brand Fair leaned forward, and this time his 
eyes had lost their pleasant smile, and had nar¬ 
rowed to slits. The fingers that held his cigar¬ 
ette were tense. 

“Tell me,” he said, “what does this woman 
look like? I’ve heard of her a little, but I’ve 
never been able—I’ve never seen her.” 

“She’s handsome,” said Nance frankly, “not 
large, but pretty-made as you find them. She 
has black hair and black eyes and a mouth as 
red as a flower, and she is always frowning. 
She’s a good shot—so good that I’m not much 
scared when she sands a ball whining over my 
head as I plow my field.” 

“Good God!” shot out Fair, “does she do 
that?” 

Nance nodded. 

“She’s done so twice. She’s my enemy, I 
tell you. And so are all her riders. Strange 
things have happened to us—bitter things. 
There was the rope in the trail that threw Bud 
down the gulch—he’s never walked straight 
since. There was the fire that took my last 
> ear s hay and there was the harness. It 
seems I can’t forgive that harness—it set us 


GOLDEN MAGIC 


111 


back in debt to McKane at the store. Bud— 
Bud—he’s out of it. There could be no thought 
of forgiveness in that. If I was a man—just an 
ordinary man-” 

The girl leaned forward with a doubled fist 
striking the canon’s floor. 

“If I was a man and knew who stretched that 
rope—I’m deadly afraid I’d kill him.” 

Fair nodded in understanding. 

“I fear that in me,” Nance went on earnestly, 
“that thing which seems to flare and make me 
hot all over when I think of Bud. I pray 
against it every night of my life. Mammy says 
it’s feud in my heart—and I say so, too.” 

For a long time the man studied her face. 

“Yes,” he said presently, “there’s something 
in you that would fight—but it would take some¬ 
thing terrible to break it loose from leash some 

cataclysmic emergency.” 

“Danger,” she said quickly, “that’s what’d 
loose it, danger to some one I love, like Bud or 
Mammy. I know it, and am afraid.’ 

“Why afraid?” asked Fair quietly, ''if you 
had to do it, why fear the necessary issue?” 

“Because,” she answered solemnly, “the 
Bible says ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ ” 

A certain embarrassment seemed to overtake 
the man for a moment and he dropped his eyes 
to his cigarette, turning it over and over in his 

fingers. 



112 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“That’s as you look at it, I suppose,” he said, 
“to every person his limits and inhibitions.” 

“But let’s not talk of feuds and killings,” 
said Nance, laughing brightly as she hugged the 
child and rubbed his tousled head. “What do 
you think of our country—Nameless River and 
the Deep Heart hills?” 

“Beautiful. Sonuy and I have traveled over 
many a thousand miles in the last two years, 
and we have yet to see a place more lovely—or 
lonely. ’ ’ 

“And can you hear the voices in the canon? 
You have to be still a long time—and then, after 
a while, they get louder and louder, as if a great 
concourse of people were talking all at once.” 

“Tou have a strange and weird conception, 
Miss Allison,” said Fair, “but I know what you 
mean. We hear them at night, Sonny and I.” 

“And that’s what I want to speak about, Mr. 
Fair,” said Nance hesitatingly, “I’ve thought 
at nights about Sonny—alone—hearing the 
voices. Have you thought what it might mean to 
a child?” 

The man smoked awhile in silence. 

Tes, he said at last, “I have. But it seems 
unavoidable. I have no place else to leave him.” 

“Leave him with me!” she cried, stretching 
out a hand imploringly, “Oh, leave him with 
me—please! I’d take such good care of him.” 



GOLDEN MAGIC 


113 


But Brand Fair shook his head. 

“It does not seem advisable, much as I appre¬ 
ciate your offer. I cannot tell you how much 
I do appreciate it—but—1 don’t want any one 
to know that I have Sonny—that he is in the 
country at all.” 

Nance gazed at him wonderingly. 

“I don’t understand it,” she said slowly, “but 
you know best. Perhaps it is best that I don’t 
understand.” 

“Perhaps,” said Fair; “but I hope you’ll 
come to see us often—maybe some day you’ll 
take a ride with us up to the head of Blue Stone. 
I do quite a bit of exploring around and about. 
Will you come?” 

Nance’s face flushed with frank pleasure. 
“Why, I’d love it,” she said. “We’ll cut up 
through Little Blue and I’ll show you Grey 
Spring and the Circle. Bud and I named them. 
We found them three years ago.” 

“Then we’ll consider ourselves engaged, eh, 
Sonny?” smiled Fair. “Engaged to Miss Allison 

for a long day’s ride?” 

“And will you bring some more cookies?” 
asked the boy lifting eager eyes to his adored. 

“Honey,” said Nance, kneeling to kiss him 
good-bye, since she was making ready to leave, 
“Nance’d bring you anything she’s got or could 
get. She’ll bring us all a whole big lunch.” 

“Old-timer,” said Fair severely, “I’m 


114 


NAMELESS RIVER 


ashamed of you. We’ll furnish some fish our¬ 
selves. ” 

He held out a hand and the girl laid her own 
in it. 

For a little space they stood so, smiling into 
each other’s eyes and neither knew that magic 
was working among the gathering shadows. 
They seemed to he old friends, as if they had 
known each other ages hack, and the grip of 
their hands was a kindly thing, familiar. 

Then a sudden confusion took the girl and 
she drew her fingers quickly away. 

“I’ll come,” she said, “next week—on Tues¬ 
day morning—early.” 

“Good,” said Fair, “we’ll be all ready.” 


CHAPTER X 


THE SEVENTH SENSE 

They were as good as their word, and when 
Nance rode np the narrow defile on the day and 
hour appointed, they were waiting, fresh and 
neat as abundant water and their worn gar¬ 
ments would permit. 

Sonny wore denim overalls a shade less rag¬ 
ged and a little shirt with sleeves. His face 
shone like the rising sun from behind Fair’s 
shoulder as they sat decorously mounted on 
Diamond. 

“The out-riders wait the Princess,” said Fair, 
“good morning, Miss Allison.” 

“Did you bring cookies?” queried the boy 
eagerly, “we’ve got the fish!” 

“Good morning,” answered Nance, “sure I 
did, Sonny. And other things, too. We’ll be 
good and hungry by noon time.” 

The sun was two hours high outside, but here 
between the towering walls the shadows were 
still blue and cold. The murmur of the stream 
seemed louder than usual, heard thus in the 
stillness of the early day. The mystery of the 
great cut was accentuated, its charm, intensified 

115 


116 


NAMELESS RIVER 


a thousandfold to Nance. There was a strange 
excitement in everything, a sense of holiday arid 
impending joy. Her face broke into smiles as 
helplessly as running water dimples, and when 
the two riding ahead turned from time to time 
to look back she was fair as “a garden of the 
Lord, 7 ’ her bronze head shining bare in the blue 
light, her eyes as wide and clear as Sonny’s own. 

This was adventure to Nance—the first she 
had ever known, and its heady wine was stirring 
in her veins. 

She did not know why the tumbling stream 
sang a different song, or why the glow of light 
creeping down from the rim rock along the 
western wall seemed more golden than before. 

She only knew that where her heart had lain 
in her breast calm and content with her labor 
and her majestic environment of hills and river, 
there was now a strange surge and thrill which 
made her think of the stars that sang together 
at the morning of creation. Surely her trea¬ 
sured Book had something for each phase of 
human life—comfort for its sorrows, divine ap¬ 
proval for its happiness. 

So she rode, smiling, her hands folded on her 
pommel, listening to Brand Fair’s easy speech, 
watching his shoulders moving lithely under the 
blue flannel shirt, comparing him to the men 
she knew and wondering again why he was not 
like them. 


THE SEVENTH SENSE 


117 


They followed the stream sometimes, and 
again trotted across flat, hard, sandy spaces 
where the floor of the canon widened, and 
passed now and again the mouths of smaller 
cuts diverging from the main one. 

44 About two miles from here,” she told Fair, 
4 4 we leave Blue Stone and take up Little Blue 
to the left. At its head lie Grey Spring and the 
Circle. We’ll make it about noon.” 

The sun was well down in the great gorge 
when they reached the opening of Little Blue, 
and in this smaller canon which diverged 
sharply at right angles, its golden light flooded 
to the dry bottom. 

44 Little Blue has no water to speak of,” said 
Nance, 4 4 only holes here and there—but they 
are funny places, deep and full, and they seem 
to come up from the bottom and go down some¬ 
where under the sand. They have current, for 
if you throw anything in them it will drift 
about, slow, and finally go down and never come 
up.” 

44 Subterranean flow,” said Fair, 44 I’ve seen 
other evidence of it in this country. Must have 
been volcanic sometime.” 

The gorge lifted and widened and presently 
they passed several of these strange pools, set 
mysteriously in the shelving floor. 

The towering walls fell away and they had the 
feeling of coming up into another world. Soil 


118 


NAMELESS RIVER 


began to appear in place of the abundant blue 
sand, and trees and grass clothed the floor in 
ever increasing beauty. 

Fair drew Diamond up and waited until Nance 
rode alongside and they went forward into a 
tiny country set in the ridging rock of the shal¬ 
lowed canon to where Grey Spring whispered 
at the edge of the Circle. 

“See!” cried Nance waving a hand about at 
the smiling scene, “it is a magic place—no 
less!” 

The spring itself was a narrow trickle above 
sands as grey as cloth, a never-ceasing flow of 
water, clear and icy cold, and beyond it was a 
round little flat, thick with green grass beneath 
spreading mush-oaks, a spot for fairy conclaves. 

“Yes,” nodded the man, “it is magic—the 
true magic of Nature in gracious perfection, un¬ 
marred by the hand of man.” 

“Are we going to have the cookies now?” 
came the anxious pipe of the boy, and Fair 
laughed. 

“Can’t get away from the deadly common¬ 
place, Miss Allison, with Sonny on the job. Poor 
little kid—he’s about fed up on untrammeled 
nature. I’m afraid I owe him a big debt for 
what I’ve done to him—and yet—I am trying to 
pay a bigger one which someone else owes him. 
Let’s camp.” 

They dropped the reins and turned the horses 



THE SEVENTH SENSE 


119 


loose to graze, and Fair built a little fire of dry 
wood which sent up a straight column of smoke 
like a signal. 

Nance untied her bundle from the saddle 
thongs and Fair unrolled a dozen trout, firm and 
cool in their sheath of leaves. He hung them 
deftly to the flames on a bent green twig and 
Romance danced attendance on the hour. He 
was expert from long experience of cooking in 
the open, and when he finally announced them 
done they would have delighted an epicure. 
Nance laid out a clean white cloth and spread 
upon it such plain and wholesome things as cold 
corned beef, white bread and golden butter, 
home-made cucumber pickles and sugared 
cookies. 

They were poor folk all, the nomad man and 
boy, the girl who knew so little beyond the grind 
of work, but they were richer than Solomon in 
all his glory, for they had health and youth and 
that most priceless thing of all—a clear con¬ 
science and the eager expectation of the good 
the next day holds. 

They sat cross-legged about their sylvan 
board and forgot such things as work and hard¬ 
ship and the bitterness of threatened feud, and 
—mayhap—vengeance. 

They talked of many things and all the time 
Nance’s wonder grew at Fair’s wide knowledge 
of the outside world, at his gentle manners, his 


120 NAMELESS RIVER 

quiet reticence in some ways, his genial freedom 
in others. 

He told her of the cities and the sea, spoke of 
Mexico and this and that far place, but mostly 
he brought her pictures of her own land—the 
rivers of the Rockies, the Arizona mesas—and 
the girl, starved for the unknown, listened open¬ 
lipped. 

They cleared away the cloth and Nance took 
Sonny in her lap, while Fair stretched out at 
length smoking in contentment. 

The child slept, the sun dropped down the 
cloud-flecked vault, and it was Fair himself who 
finally put an end to the enchanted hour, rising 
and catching up the horses. 

“You have far to go, Miss Allison/’ he said 
as he stood beside her smiling down into her 
face, “and Sonny and I must be careful not to 
work a hardship on you, or you might not come 
again. ’ ’ 

The ride back down Little Blue was quiet. 
A thousand impressions were moiling happily 
in Nance’s mind. Her eyes felt drowsy, a little 
smile kept pulling at her lips’ corners, and yet, 
so wholly inexperienced was she, she did not 
know what magic had been at work in the green 
silence of the Circle and Grey Spring. 

It was only when Fair pulled his horse so 
sharply up that Buckskin nearly stumbled on his 


THE SEVENTH SENSE 


121 


heels that she came out of her abstraction. He 
sat rigid in his saddle, one hand extended in 
warning, gazing straight ahead to where Little 
Blue opened into Blue Stone. She looked ahead 
and understood. 

A horseman was just coming into sight at the 
right edge of the opening, a big red steer was 
just vanishing at the left—and the man was 
Kate Cathrew’s rider, Sud Provine. 

He rode straight across and did not glance 
up the cut, and the watchers in the shadow knew 
they were unobserved. 

For a long time they sat in tense silence after 
he had passed, waiting, listening, but nothing 
followed and presently Fair turned and looked 
at her. 

His lips were tightly set and his face was 
grave. 

“Miss Allison,” he said regretfully, “that’s 
the first human I’ve seen in Blue Stone Canon 
beside yourself, and it means something to me. 
It means that Sonny and I must move—at 

once.” 

He sat thinking a moment, then raised his 
eyes to hers again. 

“I believe—if you will trust us a little longer 
—and if you can keep him hidden that I will 
take you up. I’ll give you Sonny for a while. 
I feel guilty in doing so, for I know how heavily 


122 


NAMELESS RIVER 


burdened you are already, but some day I shall 
make it right with you—as handsomely right 
as possible. Will he be too much trouble ?” 

“ Trouble ?” cried Nance, her face radiant, 
“give him to me this minute!” and she held* out 
her arms. 

Brand turned and looked down at the boy, 
smiling again. 

“How about that, kid?” he asked. “Cookies 
and Miss Allison’s lap instead of the cold canon 
and lonesomeness — why — why, old-timer — 
what’s the matter?” 

He pulled the child around a bit to scan him 
more closely. 

The little face was milk-white, the brown eyes 
wide. 

“You—going to—to give me away, Brand?” 
said Sonny with that curious seeming of matur¬ 
ity which sometimes fell upon him. 

The man’s face grew very tender. 

“I should say not!” he said reassuringly, 
“I’m only going to let you stay awhile with 
Miss Allison—so our enemies won’t find you 
when I’m gone.” 

Nance leaned forward. 

Enemies?” she said sharply. “Enemies, you 
say?” 

“A figure of speech,” smiled Fair, “but just 
the same we don’t want any one beside your¬ 
self to know about us. And by the way, my 


THE SEVENTH SENSE 


123 


name is Smith at Cordova—and Sonny doesn’t 
exist.” 

“I see,” said the girl slowly, “or rather I 
don’t see—but as I said before, it doesn’t mat¬ 
ter.” 

“You’re a wonderful woman. Not one in a 
million would accept us as you have done lost 
waifs, ragged, hiding, mysterious. I didn’t 
think your kind lived. You’re old-fashioned 
blessedly old-fashioned. "Why did you accept 
us?” 

“My Mammy says there’s something in a 
woman’s heart that sets the stamp on a man 
for good or bad, a seventh sense. I know there 
is. A woman feels to trust—or not to trust. 

Fair nodded. 

“That’s it,” he said, “instinct—but maybe, 
some day, you may come to feel it has betrayed 
you—iu our case—my case I mean. What 

then ? ’ ’ 

Nance shook her head. 

“It won’t, Mr. Fair,” she replied. 

The man sighed and frowned. 

“God knows,” he said, “I hope not. But let’s 

get on—it’s getting pretty late.” 

Fair rode to the cave by the pool in silence. 
There he dismounted and brought from the 
blankets such poor bits of garments as belonged 
to the child, rolled them in a bundle and fastened 
them, on Nance’s saddle. 


124 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“Pm sorry they are so ragged,” he apolo¬ 
gized. 

“It doesn’t matter,” said Nance, “Mammy 

has staff that can be made over. We’ll fix him 

up.” 

Pair mounted again and rode with her to 
Ihe mouth of Blue Stone. There he halted and 
lifted Sonny to Buckskin’s rump. 

The little fellow whimpered a bit and clung 

to his neck, while the man patted his bony little 
shoulder. 

6 There there, kid,” he said, “don’t you love 
Miss Allison?” 

“Yes,” wailed Sonny at last; “but—but—I 
just love you, Brand!” 

I ve put in two pretty strenuous years for 
Sonny s sake,” he said softly, “but they ’ve been 
worth while, Miss Allison.” 

“The service of love is always worth while,” 

said Nance, “it’s the biggest thing in this 
world. ’ ’ 

And now,” said Fair, “if you’ll buck up and 
be a man, Sonny, I’ll promise to come right 
down to the homestead some night soon and see 
you—if Miss Allison will let me?” 

Something surged in the girl’s breast like a 
sunlit tide. 

It you don’t, we’ll come hunting you,” she 
said. 

Then Fair kissed the boy, mounted Diamond 


THE SEVENTH SENSE 


125 


and sat with hands crossed on his pommel while 
Buckskin carried his double burden across the 
little flat and through the belly-deep flood of 
Nameless whispering on its riffle. 

On the other side Nance and Sonny turned to 
wave a hand and went forward into a new life. 

At the cabin door Bud stared with open mouth 
when they rode up, but Mrs. Allison, who had 
been watching them come along the flat far 
down, and who had vaguely understood, came 
forward with uplifted arms. 

“I figgered it wouldn’t be so long before you 
brought him home,” she said, “a child is what 
we do need in this here cabin. What a fine little 
man! An’ supper’s all hot an’ waitin’.” 

“I knew you’d understand, Mammy,” said 
the girl gratefully, “you’ve got the seventh 
sense, all right, and one or two more. No 
wonder our Pappy loved you all his life.” 

And so it was that Sonny Fair came into the 
warmth and comfort of fire and lamp-light, of 
chairs and tables, and beds with deep shuck- 
ticks, and to the loving arms of woman-kind, 
after two years of riding on the big black’s 
rump, of sleeping on the earth beside a campfire 
and the long lonely days of waiting. 

And, faithful as his shadow, Dirk the Collie 
sat on the stone that formed the doorstep and 
refused to budge until both Nance and Sonny 


126 NAMELESS RIVER 

convinced him that all was well, and that this 
was home. 

When Nance sat to her gracious hour with 
the Scriptures that night it seemed a very fitting 
coincidence that the Book should fall open at 
the Master’s tender words, “Suffer little chil¬ 
dren to come unto Me, for of such is the king¬ 
dom of Heaven.” 






CHAPTER XI 


THE ASHES OF HOPE 

It was dark of the moon and Sheriff Price Sel- 
wood sat on his horse a little distance from 
McKane’s store at Cordova, his hat pulled over 
his brows, his hands on his saddle horn. 

Inside the lighted store four tables were go¬ 
ing. 

A bunch of cattle-men from the Upper 

Countrv were in and most of the Cathrew men 
•/ 

were down from Sky Line. 

The nine or ten bona-fide citizens of Cordova 
were present also, and McKane was in high 
fettle. The few houses of the town were dark 
for it was fairly late. All these things the 
sheriff noted in the quarter hour he sat patiently 
watching. 

When he was satisfied that all the families 
were represented inside, that the dogs of the 
place were settled to inaction, and that no one 
was likely to leave the store for several hours at 
least, he did a peculiar thing. 

He tied his horse to a tree near where it 
stood and went forward quietly on foot, stop¬ 
ping at the rack where the Cathrew horses stood 

127 


128 


NAMELESS RIVER 


in a row. They were good stock. Cattle Kate 
would have nothing else at Sky Line. 

Selwood took plenty of time, patting a 
shoulder here, stroking a nose there, and finally 
stepped in between a big brown mare and the 
rangy grey gelding which Sud Provine always 
rode. He fondled the animal for a few moments, 
then ran his hand down the left foreleg and 
picked up the hoof. It was shod, saddle-horse 
fashion. He placed the foot between his knees, 
very much after the manner of a blacksmith, and 
taking a small coarse file from his coat pocket, 
proceeded to file a small notch in the shoe. 

Then he put the file away, gave the grey a last 
friendly slap, got his own horse and rode 
away. 

He intended to have a good night's sleep. 

Several days later Kate Cathrew came down 
to Cordova and held a short private conversa¬ 
tion with McKane. 

“McKane>" she said, 4 ‘who gives you the 
heaviest trade in this man's country?" 

“You do," said McKane promptly, “far and 
away. ’' 

“Ho you value it?" 

“Does a duck swim?" 

“Then give me a moment's attention," said 
Kate Cathrew, “and keep what I say under your 
hat." 


THE ASHES OF HOPE 


129 


“Pm like the well that old saw tells of—the 
stone sinks and is never seen again. Confession 
in the heart of a friend, yon know.” 

4 ‘ Thanks. Now listen. ’ ’ 

When the woman rode away a half hour later, 
carrying another of those letters from New 
York which the trader had come to hate ever 
since Selwood’s suggestion concerning the 
writer, his eyes had a very strange expression. 
It was a mixture of several expressions, rather 
—astonishment, of personal gratification, and a 
vague, incongruous regret. If he had been a 
better man that last faint seeming of sorrow 
might have denoted the loss of an ideal, the 
death of something fine. 

But he looked after Cattle Kate with a fire 
of passion that was slowly growing with every 
interview. 

Life at the homestead on Nameless took on a 
new color with the advent of Sonny Fair. Mrs. 
Allison, an epitome of universal motherhood, 
looked over the scant, well-mended belongings 
of the family and laid out such articles as she 
judged could be spared. 

These she began expertly to make over into 
little garments. 

“When did Brand buy you these pants, 
Sonny?” she inquired, but the child shook his 
head. 


180 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“I don’t know,” he answered. 

“H’m. Must be pretty poor,” she opined, but 
Bud scowled in disapproval. 

“Pretty durn stingy, I’d say,” he remarked. 

“Hold judgment, Bud,” counseled Nance, 
“when a man travels for two years he don’t 
have much time to make money. We’re poor, 
too, but that don’t spell anything.” 

Bud held his tongue, but it was plain he was 
not convinced. 

“What makes him so contrary, I wonder?” 
said the girl later. 

He’s jealous,” said Mrs. Allison calmly, 
“because you champion th’ stranger. It’s 
natural.” 

The field of corn was beautiful. 

Its blades were broad and satiny, covering 
the brow earth from view, and the waving 
green floor came well up along the horses’ legs 

as Nance rode down the rows on the shackly 
cultivator. 

For three days she had been at it, a labor of 
love. She had many dreams as she watched the 
light wimpling on the silky banners, vague, 
pleasant dreams that had to do with her can¬ 
celled debt at the store, with the trip to Bement 
about the carpet, and with the new blue dress 
she hoped to get with the surplus. 

Bud must have some new things, too, and her 
Mammy needed shoes the worst way. 


THE ASHES OF HOPE 


131 


All these things the growing field promised 
her, whispering under the little wind, and she 
was happy deep in her innocent heart. 

She wondered if she dared ask Brand to let 
her take Sonny on that trip to Bement, then in¬ 
stantly decided she should not. 

There might he someone from Nameless in 
the town, and Brand was particularly insistent 
on his staying out of sight. 

She never ceased to wonder about that. 

What could he his reason? 

What could there he in the Deep Heart 
country to whom a little child could make a dif¬ 
ference? 

But it was none of her business, she sagely 
concluded, and could wait the light of the future. 
Maybe Brand would some day tell her all about 

it. 

So she worked and planned for two days 
more. At their end she drove the cultivator to 
the stable and stood stretching her tired 
shoulder muscles while Bud unharnessed the 
team. 

She looked back at the field with smiling eyes. 
“Can only get in it about once more,” she 

said, “it’s growing so fast.” 

“Pretty,” Bud said, “pretty as you, almost. 

Do you know you’re awfully pretty, Sis?” 

“Hush!” she laughed. “You’ll make me vain. 
Pretty is as pretty does, you know.” 


132 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“Well, the Lord knows yon do enough,” re¬ 
turned the boy bitterly, “if I was only half a 
man-” 

Bud! cried Nance quickly, “you’re the 
most sure-enough he-man I know. You’ve got 
the patience and the courage of fen common 
men. If it hadn’t been for your steady back¬ 
ing I d never be on Nameless now. I’d have 
quit long back.” 

“Like the dickens you would!” said Bud, but 

a grin replaced the shadow of bitterness on his 
face. 


Supper that night was particularly pleasant. 

lere were new potatoes and green peas from 

ie garden down by the river, and a plate of 

the never fading cookies of which Sonnv could 
not get enough. 


He’s hollow to his toes,” said Mrs. Allison, 
I can t never seem to get him full.” 

“The little shaver’s starved,” said Bud 
“Not starved, hut he ain’t had regular food- 

not right to grow on. I can see a difference 
already. ’ ’ 

Nance reached over an investigating hand to 
feel the small shoulder. It bore proudly a brand 
new shirt made from one of Bud’s old ones 

7 7 sure ’ there was a striking dissimilitude 
of colors, since part of the fabric had been under 
a pocket and had not faded, but Sonny wore it 
with the air of kings and princes. 



THE ASHES OF HOPE 


133 


“Yes, sir,” she said judicially, “he is gaining, 
sure as the world!” 

It seemed to Nance that night that all was 
well with the world, very well. There seemed 
a wider margin of hope than usual, as if suc¬ 
cess, so long denied them, was hovering like a 
gigantic bird above the homestead, as if their 
long labor was about to have its reward. She 
fell asleep thinking of the whispering field, of 
the trip to Bement, and—of Brand Fair’s quiet, 
dark eyes, the look of the chin-strap on his 
brown cheek. 

She laid a loving hand on Sonny’s little head 
on the pillow of the improvised crib beyond her 
own big bed—and the world went swiftly from 
her consciousness. She slept quickly and 
deeply, as do all those who work hard in the 
sun and wind—the blessed boon of labor. 

It seemed to her that she had hardly lost 
consciousness when Old John announced from 
his rafter perch the coming of another day and 
she saw the faint light of dawn on the sky out¬ 
side. 

She dressed as usual, looked lovingly at the 
small face of the little sleeper in the crib, and 
went out, soft-footed, to start the kitchen fire. 
That done, she took the pail and went out to 
the well. She rested the bucket on the curb a 
moment, lifted the well-board, and stood looking 


134 


NAMELESS RIVER 


at the faint aureole of light that was beginning 
to crown Rainbow Cliff. The cliff itself was 
black, blue-black as deepest indigo, its foot lost 
in the shadows that deepened down Mystery 
Ridge. She could hear the murmuring of Name¬ 
less, soft and mysterious in the dawn, feel the 
little wind that was beginning to stir to greet 
the coming day. Then, as was her habit, she 
turned her eyes out across the waving green 
field of her precious corn. 

It muse be earlier than she thought, she re¬ 
flected, for there was not the shimmer of light 
which usually met her gaze. 

She looked again at the eastern sky. 

Why, yes—it was light as usual there. 

Once more she looked at the field—then she 
leaned forward, peering hard, her hands still 
lying on the bucket’s rim. Her brows drew 
down together as she strained her sharp sight 
to focus on what she saw—or what she thought 
she saw. For a long time she stood so. Then, 
as realization struck home to her consciousness, 
the hands on the bucket gripped down until the 
knuckles shone white under the tanned skin. 
Her lips fell open loosely. The breath stopped 
for a moment in her lungs and she felt as 
if she were drowning. An odd dizziness at¬ 
tacked her brain, so that the dim world of 
shadow and light wavered grotesquely. Her 


THE ASHES OF HOPE 


135 


knees seemed buckling beneath her and for the 
first time in her life she felt as if she might 
faint. . . . Her Mammy had fainted once— 
when they brought John Allison home. . . . 
But she gathered herself with a supreme effort, 
closed her lips, wet them with her tongue, 
straightened her shoulders and, taking her hands 
from their grip on the pail, walked out toward 
the field. 

At the gate she stopped and gazed dully at 
the ruin before her. 

Where yesterday had been a vigorous, lusty, 
dark green growth, fair to her sight as the edges 
of Paradise, there was now the bald, piteous 
unsightliness of destruction. 

Of all the great field there was scarcely a 
dozen stalks left standing. It was a sodden 
mass of trambled pulp, cut and slashed and 
beaten into the loose earth by hundreds of mill¬ 
ing hoofs. 

Far across at the upper end she could dimly 
see in the growing light a huge gap in the fence 
—two, three posts were entirely gone. It had 
taken many head of cattle, driven in and har¬ 
ried, to work that havoc. It was complete. 

• For a long, long time Nance Allison stood 
and looked at it. Then with a sigh that seemed 
the embodiment of all weariness, she turned 
away and went slowly back to the cabin. 


136 


NAMELESS RIVER 


At the open door she met Bud and pushed him 
back with both hands. Her mother was at the 
stove, lifting a lid. 

At sight of her daughter’s face she held it in 
mid-air. 

“Hold hard, girl,” she said quietly, “what’s 
up?” 

Nance leaned against the door-jamb. Every 
fibre of her body longed to crumple down, to let 
go, to relax in defeat, but she would not have 
it so. 

Instead she looked at these two, so greatly 
dependent upon her, and faced the issue 
squarely. 

“It’s the corn-field,” she said with difficulty, 
“it’s gone.” 

“What?” 

‘ 6 Gone ? Gone—how ? ’ ’ 

“Gone—destroyed—wiped off the earth— 
trampled out by cattle,” she said dully, “every 
blade—every stalk—root, stem and branch!” 

“My Lord A’mighty!” gasped Mrs. Allison, 
and the words were not blasphemy. 

“Cattle Kate!” cried Bud. “Oh, damn her 
soul to hell!” 

“Oh, Bud—don’t, don’t!” said Nance, her 
lips beginning to quiver, “ ‘He who—who is 
guilty of damn—and damnation—shall be in 
danger—danger of hell fire.’ ” 

But the boy’s blue eyes were blazing and he 



THE ASHES OF HOPE 


137 


did not even hear her. He jerked his sagging 
shoulder up, for a moment, in line with its 
mate and shut his hands into straining fists. 

“ Gimme a gun-” he rasped, “ Pappy ’s 

gun-” 

But the mother spoke. 

“No guns, Bud—I’ve seen feud—in Missouri. 
There’s land an’ sunlight in other places be¬ 
side Nameless. With life we can-” 

The boy shook his head with a slow, savage 
motion. 

“Not for us,” he said, “I’d die first.” 

Nance straightened by the door. She lifted 
her head and looked at his grim young face. 
Some of its grimness came subtly into her own. 

“Bight,” she said, “so would I. We belong 
to Nameless Biver—where our Pappy left us— 
and here we’ll stay. Only—I pray God to keep 

me from—from-” she wet her lips again, 

“from what is stirring inside me.” 

“He will,” said Bud. “But I’m not so par¬ 
ticular. We own this land—and we’ll fight for 
our own.” 

“Amen,” said Nance, “we will. We’ve still 
got the hogs to sell. Mammy—let’s have break¬ 
fast. I’m going down to Cordova—it’s right 
McKane should know.” 






CHAPTER XII 


4 4 GET-OUT—OF-THAT-DOOR I ’ ’ 

That was a bitter ride to Nance. 

The day was sweet with the scents and sounds 
of summer. Birds called from the thickets, high 
up the pine tops, stirred by a little wind, sang 
their everlasting diapason, while she could hear 
far back the voice of Nameless, growing fainter 
as she left it. 

At another time she would have missed noth¬ 
ing of all this, would have gloried in it, drunk 
with the wine of nature. Now a shadow hung 
over all the fair expanse of slope and mountain 
range, an oppression heavy, almost, as the 
hand of death sat on her heart. 

She rode slowly, letting Buckskin take his 
own time and way, her hands folded listlessly 
on her pommel, her faded brown riding skirt 
swinging at her ankles. She had discarded her 
disfiguring bonnet for a wide felt hat of Bud’s 
and her bright hair shone under it like dull gold. 
She was scarcely thinking. She had given way 
to feeling—to feeling the acid of defeat eating 
at her vitals, the hand of an intangible force 
pressing upon her. 

And she had to face McKane and tell him she 

138 


“GET-OUT-OF-THAT-DOOR!” 139 

could not pay her debt. That seemed the worst 
of all. She could go without their necessities— 
her Mammy's shoes and Bud's new underwear— 
and as for the luxuries she had planned, like 
the blue dress and the carpet—why, she would 
cease thinking about them at once, though the 
giving up of the carpet did come hard, she 
frankly owned to that. But to fail in her prom¬ 
ise to pay—ah, that was gall to her spirit! How¬ 
ever, it couldn't hill them, she reasoned, no 
matter how bitter might be their humiliation. 
There was always another day, another year, 
for work and hope, and there were still the hogs. 
They would bring, at least, enough for the 
winter’s food supply of flour and sugar, salt and 
tea. 

She could not turn them in on the debt—the 
trader must see that. 

Cordova lay sleeping under a late noon-day 
sun when she rode into the end of the struggling 
street. A few horses were tied to the hitch 
rack in front of the store and a half-dozen men 
lounged on the porch. Nance went hot and cold 
at sight of them. 

She had hoped all the way down that McKane 
would be alone, for no conversation inside the 
store could fail to be audible on the porch. It 
would be hard enough to talk to him without an 
interested audience. 

She felt terribly alien, as if these people were 


140 


NAMELESS RIVER 


allied against her, and yet she could not discern 
among the loungers anyone from Sky Line. 

As she drew near she did see with a grate¬ 
ful thrill that Sheriff Price Selwood sat tilted 
back against the door-jamb, his feet on the rung 
of his chair. At sight of him a hit of the dis¬ 
tress left her, a faint confidence took its place. 
She remembered his kindly eyes that could 
harden and narrow so quickly, his way of under¬ 
standing things and people. 

She dismounted and tied Buckskin under a 
tree and went forward. As she mounted the 
steps the sheriff looked up, rose and raised his 
hat. 

Nance smiled at him more gratefully than she 
knew. 

Then she stepped inside the door—and came 
face to face with Kate Cathrew who was just 
coming out. McKane was behind her carrying a 
small sack which held her mail and some few 
purchases. 

The two women stopped instantly, their eyes 
upon each other. 

It was the first time they had met thus 
pointedly. 

At sight of this woman whose unproved, hid¬ 
den workings had meant so much to her, Nance 
Allison’s face went slowly white. 

She stood still in the door, straight and quiet, 
and looked at her in silence. 


“GET-OUT-OF-TH AT-DOOR !” 


141 


At the prolonged intensity of her scrutiny 
Cattle Kate flung up her head and smiled, a 
conscious, insolent action. 

“If you don’t want all the door, young 
woman,” she said, “please.” 

She made a move to pass, but Nance suddenly 
put out a hand. 

There was an abrupt dignity in the motion, 
a sort of last-stand authority. 

“I do,” said the girl, “want it all. I have 
something to tell McKane, and you may as well 
hear it.” 

The imperious face of Kate Cathrew flushed 
darkly with the rising tide of her temper. 

“Get—out—of—that—door,” she said dis¬ 
tinctly, but for once she was not obeyed. 

The big girl standing on the threshold looked 
over her head at the trader. There was a little 
white line pinched in at the base of Nance’s 
nostrils, her blue eyes were colder and narrower 
than any one had ever seen them in her life. 

“McKane,” she said clearly, so that the 
hushed listeners behind her caught every syl¬ 
lable, “you know what a fight I’ve made to hold 
my own on Nameless since my father died or 
was killed. You know how close to the wind 
I’ve sailed to eat, for you’ve sold me what we’ve 
had. And I’ve always managed to keep even, 
haven’t I?” 

“Yes,” said the trader uneasily. 


142 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“Up till six months ago when I had to go in 
debt for a new harness or do no work in my 
fields this spring, I told yon when I bought it, 
didn’t I, why I had to buy it?” 

“Yes,” he said again. 

“It was because someone went into my barn 
one night and cut the old harness into ribbons. 
That put me in debt to you for the first time.” 

She stopped and wet her lips. There was the 
sound of someone rising on the porch and Price 
Selwood moved in behind her. 

She felt him there and a thrill went through 
her, as if he had put a hand on her shoulder. 

“I told you when I bought it that I’d pay you 
when my corn was ripe—that, if it went well, 
I’d have far and away more than enough. Well, 
it went well—so well that I knew yesterday 
I’d come out ahead and be able to meet that 
debt and live beside. This morning that field 
of corn was gone—trampled out—cut to pieces 
like my harness—pounded into the dirt by a 
band of cattle that had been driven—driven, you 
understand—over every foot of it. There was a 
wide gap cut in the fence at the upper end. 
That’s all—but I can’t pay my debt to you.” 

She stopped and a sharp silence fell. Out¬ 
side the store in the shade the stallion Bluefire 
screamed and stamped. 

Kate Cathrew took a quick step forward. 


“GET-OUT-OF-THAT-DOOR!” 143 

‘* TV hat for did you tell this drivel before 
me?” she said. “What’s it to me?” 

“Nothing, I know,” said Nance; “maybe a 
laugh—maybe a hope. My big flats on the 
river’d feed a pretty bunch of cattle through. 
And Homesteaders have been driven out of the 
cattle country before now.” 

“You hussy!” cried Cattle Kate, and, bend¬ 
ing back she flung up the hand which held the 
braided quirt. The lash snapped viciously, but 
Nance Allison was quicker than the whip. Her 
own arm flashed up and she caught the descend¬ 
ing wrist in the grip of a hand which had held a 
plow all spring. 

Like a lever her arm came down and forced 
Kate’s hand straight down to her knee, so that 
the flaming black eyes were within a few inches 
of her face. 

“Woman,” said Nance clearly, “I’m living up 
to my lights the best I can. I’m holding myself 
hard to walk in the straight road. The hand of 
God is before my face and you can’t hurt me— 
not lastingly. Now you—get—out—of—that— 
door.” 

And turning she moved Selwood with her as 
she swung the other, whirling like a Dervish, 
clear to the middle of the porch. 

Kate Cathrew’s face was livid, terrible to look 
upon. 

She ran the short distance to the end of the 


144 


NAMELESS RIVER 



platform, leaped off and darted to her horse, 
her hands clawing at the rifle which hung on her 
saddle. 

Selwood pushed Nance inside the store and 
flung the door shut, 

‘‘That woman’s a maniac for the moment,” he 
said, “you’re best in there.” 

When Kate came running back with the gun 
in her hands he faced her before the closed door, 
his hands in his pockets. 

If any of the tense watchers had had a doubt 
of Price Selwood’s courage they lost it then, 
for he took his life in his hands. 

“Kate,” he said quietly, “put up that gun. 
This isn’t outlaw country. If you make a 
blunder you’ll hang just like any other murderer 
—even if you are Kate Cathrew.” 

For a moment the woman looked at him as a 
trapped wild-cat might have done, her lips loose 
and shaking, her eyes mad with rage. 

Then she struck the rifle, butt down, on the 
hard earth and with a full-mouthed oath, flung 
around the corner, tore the stallion’s reins from 
the ring in the wall and mounted with a whirl. 

She struck Bluefire once and was gone down 
the road in a streak of dust. 

Selwood opened the door. 

“A narrow shave,” he said gravely, “if that 
had happened anywhere but here you’d be a 
dead woman, Miss Allison.” 



“GET-OUT-OF-THAT-DOOR!” 


145 


“Perhaps/’ said Nance, “she’s taken two 
shots at me already from the hillside—or some¬ 
one has. Well—I’ve told yon, McKane, as was 
yonr right. Now I’ll go back to Nameless.” 

She turned away, but the trader cleared his 
throat. 

“Ah—about the money for the harness,” he 
said apologetically, “I—that is—I’ve got to col¬ 
lect it. Times ain’t-” 

Price Selwood swung around and shot a look 

at him. 

“Eh?” he said. “Got to collect-? Ah, 

yes, I see—at Cattle Kate’s request! You are 
a fool, McKane. Here, Miss Allison—I’m the 
sheriff of this county. Wouldn’t you rather owe 
me that money than owe it to McKane? I can 
wait till you raise another crop—I’m not so 
pushed as our friend here. What do you say?” 

Nance raised her eyes to his and they were 
suddenly soft and blue again. The tight line 
let go about her upper lip and a stiff smile came 

instead. 

“You knew my Pappy—and I have not forgot 

how kind you were after—after-. Yes, Mr. 

Selwood, I’d rather owe you, a whole lot rather, 
and I’ll work doubly hard to pay you back.” 

Selwood drew some bills from his pocket. 

“How much, McKane?” he asked. 

The trader sullenly named the amount and 
received it on the spot. 







146 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“Now if you’d just as soon,” said the sheriff, 
“I’ll ride out to Nameless with you. I’d like to 
take a look at that trampled field.” 

As they left the town and rode out into the 
trail that led to Nameless, Nance took off her 
hat and drew a long, deep breath. 

Selwood laughed. 

“Do you feel like that?” he asked. 

“Exactly,” said she, “like a weight was off 
my shoulders. That debt to McKane was a bit¬ 
ter load.” 

“The trader is getting into deep water ” said 
the sheriff. “I hate to see him do it.” 

“How—deep water?” 

“He’s falling more and more into Cattle 
Kate’s power—and all for nothing. He knows 
it, but seems helpless. I’ve seen the like before. 
She’s a bad woman to tie to.” 

“She’s handsome—that’s one thing sure.” 

“Yes. Her type is always handsome. But 
I’m surprised to hear you say so.” 

“Why?” asked the girl wonderingly. 

“Because most women hate to admit beauty in 
another, and of all people on Nameless you have 
the least reason to see anything attractive in 
her.” 

Nance sighed again, thinking of her lost corn 
field and of her present appalling poverty. 

“As near as I’ll let myself come to hate,” 


“GET-OUT-OF-THAT-DOOR!” 


147 


she said, “I do hate her. I’ve got to fight it 
mighty hard. You know how hard it is to fight 
that way—inside your own soul.” 

“Hardest battle-ground we ever stand on,” 
said Selwood with conviction. “I’ve had some 
skirmishes there myself—and I can’t say I al¬ 
ways came off victor.” 

“You can’t, sometimes, without a lot of 
prayer,” returned Nance soberly, “I’ve pretty 
near worn out my knees on the job.” 

Selwood wanted to laugh at her naive earnest¬ 
ness, but caught himself in time. 

They rode for a time in silence, Nance and 
Buckskin ahead, the sheriff following on his lean 
bay horse. 

Presently Nance turned with a hand on her 
pony’s rump and looked at him speculatively. 

“You sort of lay up something to Cattle Kate 
about this rustling, don’t you!” she asked. 

He nodded. 

“I’ve watched her for months, but can’t get 
anything on her—not anything tangible.” 

“I was in Little Blue Canon the other day,” 
said Nance, “and saw Sud Provine pass its 
mouth in Blue Stone driving a red steer north. 
I’ve wondered a lot where he could have been 
taking it.” 

“North in Blue Stone! That’s odd. There 
isn’t enough feed in that canon to graze a calf 
two days.” 



148 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“And what’s at its head?” asked Nance, “I’ve 
never been clear up.” 

“Blue Stone heads high in the Deep Heart 
hills,” said the sheriff, “but about eight miles 
up from its mouth on Nameless its right wall 
falls abruptly away for a distance of a couple 
of miles and there one can go out on the open 
plain that stretches over toward the Sawtooth 
Range and leads out to Marston and the railroad. 
There’s some bunch grass there, but mighty 
little water. Nothing but the stream in the 
canon itself to come back to. And cattle driven 
so far away from the home range would be a 
poor risk, it seems to me, for Sky Line.” 

“Well—I wondered about it. Thought I’d 
tell you any way.” 

“I’m glad you did. I shall remember it.” 

At the homestead Nance led Selwood to the 
corn field’s lower gate and left him. 

“Go over it if you want,” she said, “and I’ll 
be out in a minute or so.” 

At the cabin she told Sonny to go into her 
room and stay until she came for him. 

“I feel guilty,” she thought, “for I can trust 
the sheriff, but Brand asked me to keep him 
hidden. I’ve got to be true to my promise.” 

“You ask the sheriff to supper,” said Mrs. 
Allison, “I’ll kill a fryer an’ make some bis¬ 
cuits. ’ ’ 


“GET-OUT-OF-THAT-DOOR!” 


149 


When Nance went out she found Selwood ex¬ 
amining the trampled field minutely. 

“Must have had fifty head or more,” he said, 
“and five or six riders. Sud Provine was one 
of them.” 

“Yes? How can you tell?” 

“I know his horse’s tracks,” grinned the sher¬ 
iff, “it’s that big grey gelding.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


WE ’BE OUR pappy’s OWN-AND WE BELONG 

ON NAMELESS/’ 


That night at dusk as Nance sat in the open 
door with Sonny drowsing in her lap, Dirk 
shot out across the yard like a tawny streak and 
headed away toward the river. 

He made no outcry, but went straight as a 
dart, and presently there came the little crack of 
shod hoofs on the stones of Nameless’ lip, and 
a rider came up out of the farther shadows with 
tlm Collie leaping in ecstasy against his stirrup. 

Something tightened in Nance’s throat, a thrill 
shot through her from head to foot. That 
strange surge of warmth and light seemed to 
flood her whole being again. 

“Mammy—Bud—” she said softly, “I think 
Brand Fair is coming.” 

Bud stirred in the darkened room, but Mrs. 
Allison was silent. 

“Always, soon or late,” she thought to her¬ 
self, “a man comes ridin’ out th’ night—an’ a 
woman is waitin’. It’s cornin’ late to her—she’ll 
be twenty-two come *Tune—but it’s cornin’. An’ 
she don’t know it yet.” 


150 


“WE BELONG ON NAMELESS” 


151 


4 'Good evening,” said a deep voice pleasantly 
as the dark horse stopped in the dooryard, "is 
a stranger welcome?” 

"We’ve been listening for you every night,” 
said the girl simply, "it’s been a long time.” 

"Brand!” cried the child sharply, struggling 
frantically to find his feet, "Oh! Oh!— Brand!” 

The man dismounted and came forward. 

He lifted the boy and kissed him, holding him 
on his breast, while he held out a hand to 
Nance. 

At its warm clasp the surging glory inside 
her deepened strangely. 

Mrs. Allison rose and lighted the lamp on the 
table. 

"Come in, stranger,” she said, "an’ set.” 

Fair came in and Nance presented him to her 
two relatives. 

Mrs. Allison looked deep in his face with her 
discerning eyes as she gave him her toil-hard 
hand and nodded unconsciously. 

With Bud it was a different matter. 

There w^as a faint coldness in his young face, a 
sullen disapproval. But Nance saw none of these 
things. Here eyes were dark with the sudden 
dilation of the pupils which this man’s presence 
always caused. There was a soft excitement in 
her. 


152 


NAMELESS RIVER 


For a little while they sat in the well-worn, 
well-scrubbed and polished room which was par¬ 
lor, dining-room and kitchen, and talked of the 
warmth of the season, the many deer that were 
in the hills, and such minor matters, while Sonny 
clung to the man and devoured his face with 
adoring eyes. 

Then the mother, harking back to the customs 
of another time, another environment, rose, bade 
good-night, signaled her son and retired to the 
inner regions. 

Bud spoke with studied coldness and shambled 
after her. 

Nance regarded this unusual proceeding with 
some astonishment. She did not realize that 
this was the peak of proper politeness in the 
backwoods of her Mammy’s day—that a girl 
must have her chance and a clear field when a 
man came “settin’ up” to her. 

And so it was that presently she found her¬ 
self sitting beside Brand Fair in the doorway, 
for the man preferred the inconspicuous spot, 
while Sonny sighed with happiness in his arms 
and Dirk sat gravely on his plumy tail at his 
master’s knee. 

Diamond stood like a statue in the farther 
shadows. 

A little soft wind was drawing up the river, 
the stars were thick in the night sky, and some- 


“WE BELONG ON NAMELESS” 


153 


thing as sweet as fairy music seemed to pulse 
in the lonely silence. 

“Has old-timer been good?” Fair wanted to 
know jocosely, rubbing the curly head which was 
no longer tousled. 

“Sure I have, Brand,” the little fellow ven¬ 
tured eagerly, “awful good—haven’t I, Nance?” 

“Miss Allison, Sonny,” said Brand severely. 

“No—Nance. She told me so herself.” 

“That settles it. No one could go against such 
authority. But has he been good?” 

“Good?” said Nance. “He’s brought all the 
happiness into this house it’s seen for many a 
long day—or is likely to see.” 

“That’s good hearing,” returned the man, 
“and I have done a lot of riding this past week. 
Tell me, Miss Allison—what sort of a chap is 
this sheriff of yours?” 

“He’s the best man on Nameless River!” 
cried the girl swiftly, “the kindest, the steadiest. 
I’d trust him with anything.” 

“Does he talk?” 

“Talk?” 

“Can he keep a still tongue in his head?” 

“I don’t know as to that—but I do know he’s 
been a friend to me in my tribulation. He prob¬ 
ably saved my life today—and he saved me a 
lot of trouble.” / 

“Saved your life?” queried Fair sharply, 
“How’s that?” 



154 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“I swung Cattle Kate Cathrew out of Mc- 
Kane’s store and she was going to shoot me but 
the sheriff faced her. I told her some things 
she didn’t like.” 

Fair drew a long breath. 

“What was the occasion?” he asked. 

“My field of corn,” said Nance miserably, her 
trouble flooding back upon her, “last night it was 
rich with promise—what I was building on for 
my debt and my winter’s furnishing. This 
morning it was nothing but a dirty mass of pulp 
—trampled out by cattle—and we know that a 
Sky Line rider was behind those cattle. It’s 
some more of the same work that’s been going 
on with us since before our Pappy died. It’s 
old stuff—what the cattle kings have done to the 
homesteaders for many years in this country. 

“If we weren’t our Pappy’s own—Bud and I 
—we’d have been run out long ago. I would, I 
think, when Bud got hurt, if it hadn’t been for 
him. He’s a fighter and won’t let go. The 
land is ours, right and fair, and he says no 
bunch of cut-throats is going to take it from us. 
I say so, too,” she finished doggedly. 

Fair reached out a hand and for a moment 
laid it over hers, clasped on her folded arm. 

“Miss Allison,” he said admiringly, “you’re 
a wonderful woman! Not many men would stick 
in the face of such colossal misfortunes. You 
must love your land.” 



“WE BELONG ON NAMELESS” 155 

I do," she said, “but it’s something more 
ihan that. It's a proving, sort of—a battle line, 
you know, and Bud and I, we're soldiers. We 
hope we can not run." 

“By George!" said the man, “you can't—you 
won't. Your kind don't. But it's a grim battle, 
I can see that." 

4 'It's so grim," said Nance quietly, “that we 
couldn't survive this winter if it wasn't for the 
hogs that will be ready to market this fall. Mc- 
Kane wouldn't give me time on my debt—Cattle 
Kate won't let him. So the sheriff paid it—he 
says he can wait till next year for his money— 
he's not so hard pushed as the trader—and Tie's 
rich, they say." 

For a little while they sat in silence while 
Sonny, blissfully happy, fell fast asleep in Fair's 
arms. 

Then the man stirred and spoke. 

“Miss Allison," he said, “the time has come 
when I am going to tell you something—just a 
little bit that may give you comfort in this hard 
going of yours. I want you to know that more 
than one force is at work against this woman at 
Sky Line Ranch—against her and all those with 
her. Sheriff Selwood is not the only one who 
suspects her of dark doings—and the other— 
knows. I am that other." 

Nance gasped in the shadows. The flickering 
lamp, blowing in the wind, had gone low. 


156 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“You?” 

“Yes. That’s why I have been so much a 
mystery in this country—why I have kept Sonny 
hidden in the canon—why I have spent two 
years of my life riding the back places of the 
West. I knew she was somewhere—and I knew 
she was crooked. The men she has with her are 
not cattle men—they are criminals, every one.” 

“Good gracious!” whispered the girl again. 

“And the reason I am not ready to run into 
her yet is this—she would recognise me before 
I am ready, because she knew me once some six 
years ago.” 

Nance Allison was, as her Mammy would say, 

‘ ‘ flabbergasted. ’’ 

She was too astonished to speak. 

“I know a lot from the other end of her op¬ 
erations. I want to make sure at this end. I 
want to get in touch with Sheriff Selwood—and 
I want you to hold hard on your battle line, 
knowing that it can not always be as it is now, 
that other forces are lined up with you—that if 
all goes as it should—Cattle Kate will be caught 
in her own trap—and I hope to the Lord it is 
soon.” 

“Why—why, this is a wonder to me!” said 
Nance, “a wonder and a light in my darkness! 
I felt you for good that first day I set eyes on 
you in the canon. Now I understand—you are 
the messenger whose feet are beautiful on the 




“WE BELONG ON NAMELESS” 


157 


hills, as the Bible says—who bears good tidings! 
My faith has never faltered,’’ she went on ear¬ 
nestly, “I knew always that the hand of God 
was before me, that my ways were not hidden 
from His sight and that some way, some time, 
all would he well with us. But sometimes it has 
been hard.” 

Fair sat thinking deeply. 

“Yes—Cattle Kate would make it hard—if 
she had a reason,” he said and there was a note 
of bitterness in his low voice, “only God and I 
know how hard.” 

“Has she-” Nance asked and hesitated, 

“has she made it hard for—for you!” 

Somehow she dreaded his reply. 

It was long in coming, and then it was cryptic. 

“Vicariously. For one other she made it hard 
to the last bitter dregs—to that unfashionable 
but sometimes existent thing, a broken heart, 
and at last to death itself. To death in black 
disgrace.” 

Nance caught her breath in dismayed sym¬ 
pathy. 

“She is cold as stone,” went on the man, “bril¬ 
liant, strong, and ruthless. She sets herself a 
point and cleaves straight to it regardless of 
who or what she tramples on the way.” 

“Yes—like wanting our land. She means to 
get it one way or another.” 

“Exactly. That rope you told me of was a 



158 


NAMELESS RIVER 


bold stroke for it. Your father was gone—your 
brother was the only other male of your family. 
With him gone, too, you should have been easy.” 

“It was murder she meant/’ said Nance, “no 
less. We’ve always known that.” 

“And what about your father’s death? Tell 
me about that—if it is not too painful.” 

“We don’t know much about it. Our Pappy 
was a mountaineer—born in the Kentucky hills, 
lived in Missouri, a man who loved the outdoors. 
He was a hunter and a woodsman. He was 
careful, never took chances. That’s why we’ve 
never been reconciled to the accident that killed 
him—he was found at the foot of Rainbow Cliff, 
as if he’d fallen down it. And no one in this 
country has ever been known to reach the top of 
that spine.” 

“Have you ever thought that perhaps he 
didn’t fall. That he might have been put there 
as a way to cover a—crime?” 

Nance shook her head. 

“Every bone in his body was broken,” she 
said sadly, “he was as loose as a bag of sand. 
He fell down Rainbow Cliff all right—but how 
it happened, that’s what we’d love to know.” 

“And probably never will,” said Fair. 

“No.” 

They sat for a time in silence. 

Ihe little wind blew in their faces, sweet with 
its fresh and nameless suggestion of flowing 


“WE BELONG ON NAMELESS” 


159 


water. Out in the shadows the big black horse 
stood perfectly still, his peaceful breath scarce 
lifting his sides. The Collie was silent, though 
his handsome head was up, his sharp ears lifted 
above his ruff. The child in Fair’s lap continued 
to sleep. 

It seemed to Nance Allison that the night had 
never been so calm before, the stars so bright, 
the unspeakable majesty of the heavens so ap¬ 
parent. She wondered how it was possible to 
feel so safe and at peace in the face of this last 
disaster, to look to the future once more with 
hope. 

The little smile was pulling at her lips again, 
her long blue eyes were soft with hidden light. 

And then, out of the stillness and starlight, 
from somewhere across the river, there came 
the clear crack of a high-power gun, the thud of 
a ball in wood. With one sweep of his right 
arm Fair flung Nance back upon the floor, him¬ 
self and the child beside her. 

He slipped Sonny from his lap with a low 
word and rolled clear. Quick as a cat he drew 
his body to the table, raised an arm above its 
edge and swept the lamp to the floor, extin¬ 
guishing it instantly. 

Then he crawled back and the hands he laid 
upon the girl’s shoulders were shaking. 

“Tell me,” he gritted, “tell me it did not hit 
you! ’ ’ 


160 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“I—can’t,” whispered Nance, “my left arm 
—it feels all full of needles.” 

Fair slipped his fingers down along the firm 
young arm, beneath its faded sleeve and found 
it warm and wet. 

Sonny was awake but still as a little quail hid 
in the grass at its mother’s warning whistle. 

There was the sound of a soft opening door 
beyond, and Mrs. Allison’s voice, low and terror- 
filled, said, “Nance—girl ” 

“Don’t fret, Mammy,” she whispered back, 
“I’m all right—just a scratch. Pin something 
on the window before you make a light.” 

Bud’s shuffle came round the table and he 
knelt beside her, feeling for her hands. 

“Mammy!” he cried with restrained passion, 
“I’ll have my Pappy’s gun now—or go with 
bare hands! You got to gimme it!” 

Nance got to her feet with Fair’s arm about 
her and pushed the door shut. Then the mother 
struck a light and restored the lamp to the 
table. In its yellow flare they peeled the sleeve 
from the girl’s arm and found a shallow wound 
straight across, about three inches above the 
elbow. 

For a long time Brand Fair looked at it. 

Then he raised sombre eyes to her face. 

“Eight inches to the right,” he said slowly, 
“and it would have been your heart.” 



“WE BELONG ON NAMELESS” 


161 


She nodded. 

4 ‘Cattle Kate means business now,” she said, 
“but—I—don’t think she’ll get me.” 

“Not if I can get her first,” said Fair grimly. 
“Now let’s have some hot water strong with 
salt.” 

Mrs. Allison set about preparing this, while 
the bitter tears of one who had seen feud before, 
dripped down her weathered cheeks. 

The boy Bud stood by the table opening and 
closing his hands and muttering under his quick 
breath—'“Pappy’s gun — it’s good and true- 
sighted. Not high-power—but I can hide and 
wait—close—close ’ ’ 

“If you’ll forgive a stranger, Mrs. Allison,” 
put in Fair, straightening up and looking at the 
mother, “I’d say—give him his father’s gun. 
And I’d say, Buddy—don’t go to pieces now 
after such a brave and conservative fight. Be a 
defender—not a murderer.” 

The boy turned his dilated eyes to him, wetting 
his dry lips. 

In the long look that passed between them 
something seemed to break down in Bud, the 
antagonism he had felt for Fair seemed to melt 
away. The mysterious comradery of honest 
manhood fell upon them both, and the man held 
out his hand. 

The boy took it and his eyes became sane. 





162 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“We’ve got a big job cut out for us,” said 
Fair gravely, 11 and must be in the right—at 
every point. We’ll dig out the nest of vipers at 
Sky Line, but we’ll do the job cleanly. Now let’s 
get busy with our first-aid.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


LIGHT ON THE SHERIFF’S SHADOWS 

From that night forth Fair came frequently to 
the homestead on Nameless. It was a dull spot 
now and his advent was a saving grace. The 
light of hope, the joy of labor and accomplish¬ 
ment, had in a measure departed. There was 
little or nothing to do, less to look forward to. 
For a little while Nance kept to the cabin as a 
matter of precaution, but soon she began to pick 
up the odds and ends of her pointless work— 
to mend the fence which had been cut, and to 
make ready to harvest the crop of hay across the 
river. 

“Though I suppose it will be just that much 
work thrown away,” she said, “for the stacks 
will burn some night like they did before.” 

“Take a chance,” counseled Fair, “maybe they 
won’t this time.” 

“You bet we’ll take the chance,” said the 
girl with a flare of her old spirit, “we’ve never 
laid down yet.” 

But try as she would there was a dullness in 
her, a desire to stop and rest a bit, and the 
hatred that was slowly growing in her stirred 

163 



164 


NAMELESS RIVER 


anew each time she raised her eyes to the distant 
line of Rainbow Cliff gleaming in the light like 
fairy stuff. 

“If it wasn’t for you now, Mr. Fair,” she said 
to him, “I think I’d—almost—be ready to give 
up. You give me new courage—as Sheriff 
Selwood did when he stepped behind me that day 
on McKane’s porch.” 

“No, you wouldn’t. It isn’t in you to give 
up. Perhaps reinforcements do have their effect 
—but you’d never leave the line, Nance.” 

The girl smiled. 

It was the first time he had used her given 
name and her heart missed a beat, while the 
warm surge went through her again. 

“No—I know it—but sometimes I do feel— 
well, tired.” 

“You’ve had enough to make you so,” he said 
and laid his hand on hers. At his infrequent 
touches Nance always felt a glow of returning 
strength, as if once more she could work and 
fight for her own. She counted it one of her 
scant blessings that Brand Fair had come into 
her life at its darkest hour. 

Sheriff Selwood had a visitor. 

The prospector, John Smith, rode into his 
ranch yard and sat judging him with shrewd 
eyes. 

“Sheriff,” he said, “I’ve a notion you and I 



LIGHT ON THE SHERIFF’S SHADOWS 165 


could have a pleasant and perhaps a profitable 
talk. Will you saddle a horse and ride out with 
me a way?” 

4 ‘Sure,” said Price Selwood readily, and asked 
no questions. 

He went into his stable and soon came out 
leading the lean hay, mounted and followed as 
the other turned away. 

“ That’s a pretty good horse you ride, 
stranger,” he said, “I’ve noticed it at Cordova 
a time or two.” 

“Yes,” returned Smith, “he has blood and 
bottom—also intelligence.” 

They rode for a while in silence. Then the 
stranger slouched sidewise in his saddle and 
looked at Selwood. 

“I’m going to tell you several things, Sheriff,” 
he said, “and show you some more. And I 
want to make a pact with you. It’s about 
Cattle Kate Cathrew and the Allison family.” 

“Shoot,” said the sheriff succinctly. 

“I’m a stranger hereabouts, but I’m not a 
happen-so. I’ve hunted Kate Cathrew for two 
years.” 

At that Price Selwood became alert in every 
nerve. 

“What?” he ejaculated. 

“On horseback, by train—from New York to 
this side the Rockies. Are you willing to let 
me line up with you in this matter?” 


166 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“Pm willing to do anything nnder Heaven 
that’s square to get that bunch of rustlers—for 
so I’m convinced they are,” said Selwood, “and 
to do it quick, for I’m afraid if we don’t, some¬ 
thing will happen to the folks on Nameless that 
can’t be mended.” 

“So am I. Miss Allison was shot in her 
doorway a few nights back.” 

“God!” cried the sheriff, “what’s that?” 

“Just a scratch on her arm—but it w T as meant 
for her heart. I was there at the time. The ball 
came from across the river—a high-power gun.” 

The sheriff groaned. 

“That’s it! The same old stuff—shoot from 
ambush—no evidence—nothing. It makes a man 
wild! I’ve done all a man could do, and I can’t 
put my finger on a thing.” 

“I’ve heard about the disappearing cattle,” 
said the other, “and I’ve done a bit on my own 
hook. I may as well tell you now, that my name 
is not Smith, and that I’ve been in Blue Stone 
Canon for nearly two months.” 

Selwood looked at him in astonishment. 

“No one knows it all, even about his own door¬ 
step,” he said. “I thought you w'ere just pass¬ 
ing through.” 

“If you will, I’d like you to ride up the canon 
with me,” said Fair, “to where the right wall 
falls away beyond the mouth of Little Blue. 
It’s early and we can make it by noon, I think.” 


LIGHT ON THE SHERIFF’S SHADOWS 167 


They fell silent for a while, threading the 
hills that rose in a jumbled mass to the south 
of Nameless Valley, and after an hour or so, 
reached the river. They crossed on the riffle 
where Nance was accustomed to ford on her way 
to Blue Stone, and entered the mouth of the 
great cut. 

“We’ll keep to the water as much as possible,” 
said Fair, “because there are other eyes than 
ours here sometimes.” 

They passed the empty cave where Nance had 
found Sonny and Dirk and followed the stream 
on up to the mouth of Little Blue. 

“From up in there,” said Fair, riding ahead, 
44 1 saw T one of the Cathrew riders—a man named 
Provine—driving a red steer up this way.” 

44 Ah!” said the sheriff, adding to himself— 
4 4 and so did Nance Allison. These young folks 
seem to know each other pretty well.” 

4 4 He went on north and disappeared. I fol¬ 
lowed next day and came upon a mystery—some 
more of this water travel which leads no¬ 
where. ’ ’ 

44 We’ve had a lot of that,” said Selwood bit¬ 
terly, 44 it’s what has baffled the whole country.” 

44 Well—I’ll show you something,” said Fair, 
44 that may set you guessing.” 

The keen blue shadows were cold and the 
voices were murmuring in the high escarpments. 

Through pools and over shale, where ever they 


168 


NAMELESS RIVER 


could, they put their horses, avoiding the sand, 
and presently, when the sunlight had crept al¬ 
most down to the floor of the canon, they came 
out at the spot where the right wall fell away 
abruptly showing the plains stretched out like 
a dry brown floor, dotted with sparse bunch 
grass. 

On the left the great precipice continued un¬ 
broken. 

Fair went on ahead, still keeping to the water, 
though both horses were pretty well winded with 
the hard going it afforded, and at last drew up 
to let Selwood come alongside. 

He sat still for a moment. 

“Listen a bit,” he said, “do you hear any¬ 
thing different from the sounds of water and 
the murmuring of the big cut*?” 

The sheriff listened sharply. 

“Yes,” he said presently, “I do. Sounds like 
wind. ’ * 

“Exactly. Yet there isn’t any wind, more 
than the draft which always draws down the 
canon. Now look closely at the wall. Watch that 
clump of willows yonder.” 

He pointed ahead and to the left where a 
dense green growth stood alone against the 
rock face. 

Selwood looked and for a moment his face did 
not change. 


LIGHT ON THE SHERIFF’S SHADOWS 169 


Then, suddenly, his mouth fell open, his eyes 
grew wide with astonishment. 

4 ‘Great Scott!” he said, “they’re blowing out 
from the wall! There’s wind behind them!” 

Fair moved forward and dismounted, leaving 
Diamond in the stream. The sheriff followed. 

They stepped lightly across the strip of sand 
which lay between the water and the willows and 
Fair turned to the right, circling the clump. 

“Here,” he said, “that red steer and the man 
who drove it went into the wall. I found their 
tracks that day. They’ve been obliterated by 
the shifting sand since then.” 

He pushed aside a feathery branch mnd the 
sheriff at his shoulder craned an incredulous 
head to look into what seemed the mouth of a 
cave. 

“No—it’s not a cave,” said Fair at his sur¬ 
mise, “it’s a prehistoric underground passage. 
It leads straight into the heart of Mystery 
Ridge from this end, and it has an opening some¬ 
where, attested to by this current of wind. This 
mouth is just wide enough to admit one steer 
at a time, one horse and rider but what more 
do you want?” 

“Great Scott!” cried Selwood again, “of all 
the impossible things! And not a soul on Name¬ 
less knows about it!’’ 

“Wrong!” said Fair, “Kate Cathrew and her 


170 


NAMELESS RIVER 


riders know. That open plain yonder—-it leads 
out to a town, doesn’t it? On the railroad?” 

“Marston—yes. A long way across.” 

“Water?” queried Fair. 

“Yea—at intervals. Springs. Do for driving 
—yes—not for range—too far apart,” 

“Exactly,” said Fair. “Now, sheriff, find 
the other end of this subterranean passage and 
I believe you’ll have solved the mystery of the 
disappearing steers.” 

Price Selwood held out his hand. It was 
trembling. 

“I can’t tell you what I owe you for this 
information, Mr. -?” 

“Smith—yes,” said Fair smiling. 

“Smith. It means more than I can say— 
to me.” 

“It means as much—or more—to me,” re¬ 
turned the other, “I’ve given two years of my 
life to a still-hunt for Kate Cathrew. I’d give 
two more to see her brought to justice.” 

“And we’ll get lier!” said the sheriff grimly 
though with a lilt of joy in his voice. “Oh, my 
Lord, just won’t we get her! We’ll follow this 
hole straight to its-” 

“If I might suggest,” cut in Fair, “I’d say 
we’ll back out now—even brush out our tracks 
—and begin a systematic picketing of the Cath¬ 
rew bunch. The cattle are fat on the ranges— 
it’ll soon be time to drive. Don’t you think it 




LIGHT ON THE SHERIFF’S SHADOWS 171 

likely that another big bunch might—disappear 
down Nameless River?” 

44 Say,’’ said Selwood smiling. “Mister, you 
just move in my house with me! You can think 
faster and straighter than any man I ever met. 
Let’s go right now.” 

Fair laughed and turned away, leading Dia¬ 
mond back down the canon. 

“For the present,” he said, “I’ll keep to the 
background as I have been doing. This woman 
would recognise me and be instantly alert for 
trouble. Another thing, Sheriff—those men with 

her are not cattlemen.” 

“Just what I’ve always said!” cried Selwood 
delightedly, “I knew that long ago. There’s 
one or two who do pass muster—her foreman 
and that black devil from Texas, Sud Provine. 

The rest are city stuff.” 

“They are, without exception, criminals who 
have been defended by one of the ablest la,wyers 
in New York and acquitted. They owe him a 
l 0 t—and he has something more on each one 
of them, so that they are his henchmen in every 
instance. This man is Lawrence Arnold.” 
“Kate Cathrew’s partner! He owns half ot 

Sky Line!” 

“Exactly. When he gets hold of a man he 
wants to use, he seems to send him here. I have 
recognized three of these riders already, though 
none of them knew me.” 


172 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“Excuse me, mister,” said Selwood, “but how 
do you happen to know so much?” 

“That question is your right, and I will 
answer it. Kate Cathrew was a New York 
woman—I knew her there some six years ago. 
She was clever then—and unscrupulous, always 
playing for her own advancement. It was along 
that line that she did the deed for which I have 
hunted her down—and found her at last. What 
deed that was I am not ready to say, nor to 
whom it was done. It must suffice for the present 
to tell you that it ruined one life and bade fair 
to ruin another until I stepped in to take a 
hand. These two lives were very near my own 
—and for their sake I have become a wanderer, 
a homeless tramp, searching the lone places of 
the West to find this woman and make her pay 
—to bring her to justice. I watched Lawrence 
Arnold for three years before I started and I 
knew he was in touch with her, that between 
them some way they were making money, but 
I could never get track of her through him. He 
was too sharp for me. I have visited every cat¬ 
tle ranch owned by a woman in the whole United 
States, it seems to me. I found seven in Texas, 
two in Montana, and more in Idaho. I have 
ridden this little chap thousands of miles, 
shipped him with me by rail thousands more. I 
knew it was cattle stuff from some of Arnold’s 


LIGHT ON THE SHERIFF’S SHADOWS 175 


deals, but where they came from has been a 
mystery—until two months ago. Now you know 
what I am and why I’m on Cattle Kate’s 
trail like a nemesis. I think, if we work to¬ 
gether, we’ll land her soon—and land her hard 
and fast where she belongs.” 

“Amen to that,” said Selwood fervently. 

The summer drowsed along on Nameless, sweet 
with sun and the little winds that stirred the 
pine tops, green with verdure and starred with 
wild flowers. The lonesome world of the jumbled 
hills was fair as Paradise, wistful with silence, 
mysterious with its suggestion of eternal waiting. 

To Nance Allison, sitting listlessly on her 
doorstep, it seemed strangely empty. There 
was nothing to do, now that the heavy labor of 
the haying was over. She watched her three 
big stacks with sombre eyes, expecting each 
morning to find them destroyed, but nothing 
happened to them. 

Bud carried his father’s rifle now and day 
after day he went morosely into the hills after 

venison. 

“Got to hang up enough meat for winter,” he 
told Nance when she looked at him with trou¬ 
bled eyes. 

“Got to remember that Commandment which 
‘Thou shalt not kill,’ ” she answered. 


says 


174 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“Brand said to carry the gun.” 

“Brand said ‘defend’—not ‘murder.’ Hold 
hard, Bud. We’ve kept clean so far.” 

“Yes—and what’ve we got? A grave—and 
this” 

He shrugged his sagging shoulder. 

Quick tears came in Nance’s eyes and she laid 
a hand upon it with infinite tenderness. 

I know,” she said, “but somehow I still 
have faith. We’ll come out free some day.” 

“Perhaps—free like our Pappy.” 

“God forbid!” said the girl with trembling 
lips. 



CHAPTER XV 


THE FLANGE IN RAINBOW CLIFF 

It was getting along into August. In every cup 
and hollow of the Deep Heart hills the forage 
was deep and plentiful. Cattle, scattered 
through the broken country, waxed sleek and 
fat. They had nothing to do hut till their 
paunches in the sunlit glades and chew their 
cuds on the shadowed slopes. 

Bossick, riding his range one day, came upon 
Big Basford and Sud Provine ambling down 
toward the upper reaches of Nameless. 

Their horses were tired, giving evidence of 
hard going, and the cattleman stopped and 
looked at them with hostile eyes. 

“ Pretty far off your stamping ground, ain't 

you?” he asked. 

Provine grinned. 

He was a slow-moving individual with a bad 
black eye and a reputation with the gun that 
always rode his thigh, though he had been, mild 
enough on Nameless. It was the little wimple 
of trailing whispers which had come into the 


175 


176 


NAMELESS RIVER 


country behind him that had put the brand 
upon him. 

“Are so,” he answered insolently, “but hit’s 
free range land at that, ain’t it?” 

“In theory, yes,” said Bossick, “but it’s 
about time practice changed matters. I’m about 
fed up on theory—and so are a few others in 
this man’s country. I’d take it well if you and 
all your outfit stayed on the south side of Mys¬ 
tery where you belong. Your stock don’t range 
this far in the Upper Country.” 

“Is that so,” drawled the other, “an’ who 
says so?” 

“I do,” said Bossick quietly, “and I’m only 
giving you a warning, Pro vine, which you’d bet¬ 
ter heed. You can take the word to Kate Cath- 
rew, too. Her high-handed methods don’t set 
any too well with us—and we don’t care who 
knows it.” 

“To hell with you and your warnings!” flared 
Big Basford, his ugly temper rising. “Sky 
Line’s too strong for any damned bunch of 
backwoods buckaroos, an’ don’t you forget it! 
We’re-” 

“Shut up!” snapped Pro vine, and rode away. 

“Selwood’s right,” mused Bossick as he 
looked after them, “they’re a precious lot of cut¬ 
throats. ’ ’ 



THE FLANGE IN RAINBOW CLIFF 177 


At Sky Line Ranch there was activity. 

Kate Cathrew was gathering beef. 

Riders were coming in daily with little 
bunches of cattle, all in good condition, which 
they herded into the corrals. 

Day and night the air was resonant with the 
endless bawling. 

It was a little early for the drive—but then 
Cattle Kate was always early. And this year 
she had a particular reason for precipitancy. 

One of those New York letters had said, “- 

would like to come a little sooner, if possible, so 
let’s clean up promptly.” 

The word of those letters was law to her. 
If they had said 4 ‘ship” in December, she would 
have tried to do so. 

Now she was out on Bluefire from dawn to 
dark herself, and there was little or nothing 
escaped her eyes. She knew to a nicety how 
many yearlings were on the slopes of Mystery, 
the number of weaning calves, the steers that 
were ready for shipping and those that were not. 

When Provine carried her Bossick’s message 
verbatim the red flush of anger rose in her face 
again and she struck the stallion a vicious cut 
with her quirt. 

Bluefire rose on his hind legs, pawing, and 
shook his head in rage, the wild blood strug¬ 
gling with the tame in him. 



178 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“If Bossick ever speaks to you again,’’ said 
Kate, “you tell him to go to hell, and that Kate 
Cathrew said so.” 

“I did,” said Basford, grinning, “and Sud 
objected.” 

“Where’s your allegiance to Sky Line!” she 
asked Provine instantly, “must Basford show 
you loyalty?” 

“I can show him discretion,” said Provine, 
evenly, “an’ hit don’t take much brains to see 
that. Do you want these ranchers t’ begin ridin’ 
hard on us—nights, for instance, an’ nowf” 

Kate frowned and tapped her boot. 

“The devil his due,” she said presently, 
“you’re right, Provine,” and turned away. 

The corrals were choked with cattle. 

Sky Line was ready for its drive. 

On the last night before the start there was a 
peculiar tenseness in everything about the busy 
place. Kate Cathrew was everywhere. She 
saw what horses were ready for use, spoke 
sharply with every rider to make sure he knew 
what he was to do, and told Rod Stone once 
more to get out of the kitchen. 

The boy laughed, but Minnie Pine glanced 
after her with smouldering eyes. 

“She’s a devil—the Boss,” she told Josef a, 
v “I hate her.” 

After the early supper Caldwell, Provine, Bas- 


THE FLANGE IN RAINBOW CLIFF 179 

ford and four others, saddled fresh horses and 
rode away. 

It was dark of the moon—as it was always 
when Sky Line gathered beef—a soft windy 
dark, ideal for the concealment of riders, the 
disguising of sounds. 

They dropped down the mountain at an angle, 
heading northwest to circle the end of Mystery, 
and they followed no trail. 

They were all armed and all wore dark 

clothing. 

The only point of light about them was the 
grey horse which Provine rode. 

Kate Cathrew had remonstrated about that 
horse, but the Texan who feared neither man, 
beast or devil, had slapped its rump affection¬ 
ately and refused to ride any other.. 

“If that damned nosey sheriff hits my trail 
on his long-legged bay I want old Silvertip 
under me,” he had said, 6i 1 don’t aim to deco¬ 
rate no records for him.” 

“Are you saying you won’t obey me!” the 

boss had asked in a voice of ice. 

“Yes, ma’am, in this particular instance.” 
“Do you know Lawrence Arnold will soon 

be here?” 

“W T ell?” 

“You know what he can do to you?” 
“Shore. But—I’ll risk it—for Silvertip.” 


180 


NAMELESS RIVER 


So he had deliberately mounted and the woman 
was thankful that none of the other riders had 
heard the insubordination. 

Provine was invaluable, and she held her 
peace. 

Caldwell, leading, kept well up on the slope 
above the river and after two hours’ hard going 
they were well around the northwest end of 
Mystery Ridge which flared like a lady’s old- 
fashioned skirt, and heading down into the 
glades that broke the jumbled ridges of the Up¬ 
per Country. 

Here Bossick, a rich man, ran his cattle and 
had his holding. 

His ranch lay well back from the river and 
up, but his stock ranged down. That was why 
it had been easy prey for the mysterious rustlers 
of Nameless River. 

These men did not talk. 

They rode with a purpose and they were alert 
to every sound, their nerves were taut as fiddle 
strings. 

Where the slanting glades came down toward 
the river they dropped to the level and presently 
rode up along a smooth green floor that led 
directly toward Bossick’s place, though a sharp 
spine cut it off at the head. The outlet from 
the ranch to the river lay over this ridge and 
parallel to it. 

As they trotted up the glade the little wind 


THE FLANGE IN RAINBOW CLIFF 181 

that drew down from the canon at its head 
brought the scent of cattle, and presently they 
came upon a horse and rider standing like a 
statue in the shadows. 

Caldwell drew rein sharply. 

“ Dickson f” he asked in a low voice. 

“0. K.” came the answer as the other moved 
forward to join them. 

“Seventy-one head,” he said quietly, “and 
all ready.” 

“Then let's get busy,” said the foreman, “and 
get out of here.” 

With pre-arranged and concerted action the 
seven men divided and circled the herd which 
was bedded and quiet. On the further edge 
they were joined by another shadowy rider, and 
with silence and dispatch they got the cattle up 
and moving. 

They made little noise, drifting down the level 
floor of the glade in a close-packed bunch. At 
its mouth they headed south along the shore of 
the river and followed along the stream for a 
matter of several miles. Where the western end 
of Mystery turned, Nameless curved and went 
down along the ridge's foot in a wide and placid 
flow. It was here that the drivers forced the 
cattle to the water and kept them in it, riding 
in a string along the edge. This was particular 
work and took finesse and dispatch. 

The bewildered stock tried at first to come out, 


182 


nameless river 


but everywhere along the shore were met with 
the crack of the long whips, the resistance of the 
string of horsemen, so that presently, following 
the several dominant steers which traveled in 
the lead, the whole herd splashed and floundered 
along the sandy bottom of the river, knee deep 
in water. 

This was the trick which had baffled cattle- 
land, and it was both easy and clever, com¬ 
paratively. 

And so Bossick’s seventy-one head of steers 
were disappearing and there was none to see. 

That is, at this stage of the proceedings. 

There was one to see—one who had spent 
many weary weeks of night riding, of patient 
watching which had seemed likely to be un¬ 
rewarded—Sheriff Price Selwood sitting high on 
the slope above Kate Cathrew’s trail, as he had 
so often, doggedly following his “hunch” and 
the prospector John Smith’s discovery. 

Since that ride up Blue Stone Canon he had 
taken turns with Smith in picketing Cattle 
Kate’s outfit, but nothing untoward had taken 
place. 

Now he sat in tedious silence, listening to the 
night sounds, unaware that any one was out 
from Sky Line, since Caldwell and his com¬ 
panions had dropped diagonally down the slope 
in their going, passing far above him. 

For an hour he sat, slouching sidewise in his 



THE FLANGE IN RAINBOW CLIFF 183 


saddle, his hat palled over his eyes. The bay 
horse stood in hip-dropped rest, drowsing com¬ 
fortably. 

It was well after midnight, judging by the 
stars in the dark sky, when Selwood suddenly 
held the breath he was drawing into his lungs. 

He had heard a cattle-brute bawl. 

For a moment he was still as death. 

Then he straightened up, every nerve taut. 

He heard the sounds of cattle, the crack of 
whips, the unmistakable commotion of moving 
bodies. As it all came nearer below him he 
caught the swish and splash of water, and knew 
he was at last witnessing a raid of rustlers, one 
of the mysterious “ disappearances ” which had 
puzzled all the Deep Heart country for so long. 

He wished fervently that Smith were with 
him—that Bossick and Jermyn and all the rest 
were there. 

His heart was beating hard and to save his 
life he could not help the excitement which took 
hold upon him. 

And presently he heard, directly beneath him 
where Kate Cathrew’s trail crossed Nameless, 
the trample and crack of a myriad hoofs taking 
to the rocky slope. The riders were turning 
the steers up toward Sky Line Ranch! 

But what could they do with them there? 

Where could they hide them? 

He had searched every foot of the home place 


184 


NAMELESS RIVER 


himself that day for the two of Old Man Conlan, 
and had found not so much as a sheltered gulch, 
a hidden pocket. 

What, then, could Cattle Kate do with such 
a bunch as was coming up her trail now? 

Sheriff Seiwood had food for thought but little 
time to use it. He had only time for decision, 
and for the action which was to follow swiftly 
on that decision. 

As the cattle came up the slope, pushed by the 
many horsemen who completely encircled them, 
they left a broad trail, their tracks all going 
upward—all this passed through his racing 
mind. 

What was to prevent him or any one else 
from riding straight up to their destination by 
broad daylight? 

And then on the heels of this question came 
like a flash of light on a dark curtain that old 
coincidence in time! 

When that ninety head had vanished Kate 
Cathrew had been driving down—driving down 
from Sky Line—three hundred head, head of her 
own stock, all open and above board, properly 
branded clear and fair! 

Three hundred head of steers whose moiling 
hoofs, going down, would trample out all trace 
of ninety going up! 

The sheriff’s eyes were gleaming in the dark, 
his lips were a tight line of determination. 


THE FLANGE IN RAINBOW CLIFF 185 

He was beginning to get hold of the mystery 
with a vengeance. 

He thought of the windy passage that opened 
into Blue Stone Canon. If he could only find 
its head he would, as Smith had said, have 
solved the problem. And unless he missed his 
guess by a thousand miles, those steers stream¬ 
ing past him at the moment were headed for 
it now! 

Here was the chance for which he had waited, 
for which he had ridden the hills for months, 
for which he had endured the contempt and the 
insinuations of the cattlemen. 

Here was the chance to nail her crimes on Cat¬ 
tle Kate Catlirew, to make the “killing” of his 
years of failure in office—and Sheriff Price Sel- 
wood, brave man and honest officer of the law, 
took his life in his hand again and fell in beside 
the herd. 

Dark, quiet, shadowy—he was a rider among 
the riders, to all intents and purposes one of 
Kate Catlirew’s men—and he was helping to 
drive Bossick’s steers up to the foot of Rainbow 

Cliff! ! 

From the few low-toned shouts and oaths he 

was able to identify the two men nearest him as 
Sud Provine and Caldwell, the foreman. 

He thanked his stars for his own dark horse, 

his inconspicuous clothing. 

It was hard going up the steep slants of 


186 


NAMELESS RIVER 


Mystery Ridge, and kept every one busy to keep 
the cattle, unaccustomed to night driving and in 
strange country, headed in the right direction 
and all together. 

But they did the trick like veterans and after 
a long, hard drive, Selwood saw the rim-rock 
of Rainbow Clift against the stars. 

The herd was headed straight for the face of 
the cliff, and he expected soon to see the riders 
swing them east toward the corrals of Sky Line, 
but they did not do so. When the foremost 
steers were close under the wall Caldwell rode 
near and called to him, thinking him one of 
his men: 

“Get around to the right,’’ he said, “and 
keep close to Sud, Bill. I’ll lead in myself. 
Take it slow. Don’t want ’em to jam in the 
neck. When the first ones start behind th’ 
Flange let ’em dribble in on their own time. All 
ready?” 

The last two words were a high call addressed 
to all the men. From all sides of the herd, 
come to a full stop now, came replies and Sel¬ 
wood saw Caldwell ride away around to the 
right. 

Turning his horse the sheriff followed 
promptly. 

He was tense as a wire, alert, dreading dis¬ 
covery every moment, yet filled with an excite¬ 
ment which sent the blood pounding in his ears. 


THE FLANGE IN RAINBOW CLIFF 187 


As lie neared the face of the precipice on the 
right, he saw Provine sitting on his horse, saw 
Caldwell circle in to the wall and cutting in 
before the massed cattle, go straight along its 
length. The faint starlight was just sufficient 
to show up bulk and movement, not detail. He 
heard the foreman begin to call “Coee—coo-ee 
coo-ee”—and the next moment he could not 
believe his eyes, for horse and rider melted head¬ 
first into the face of Rainbow Cliff, as a knife 
slices into a surface and disappeared! Cald- 
welPs voice came from the heart of the wall, far 
away and muffled, calling “Coo-ee—coo-ee” 
Provine edged in against the steers, shouting, he 
followed suit, as to movement, though he did 
not speak, and the dark blot of the mass began 
to flow into the solid rock of the spine that 

crowned Mystery Ridge! 

Sheriff Selwood had solved the mystery of the 
disappearing steers—knew to a certainty who 
were the rustlers of Nameless River and he 
could not get away with his knowledge quickly 

enough. 

Therefore he reined his horse away to the lett, 
dropped back along the herd, edged off a bit— 
a bit more—sidled into a shadow— slipped be¬ 
hind the pine that made it—and putting the bay 
to a sharp walk, went down the mountain. 

As the sounds behind him lessened he drew a 



188 


NAMELESS RIVER 


good breath and struck a spur to his horse’s 
flank. 

And right then, when there was most need, the 
good bay who had served him so long and 
faithfully, betrayed him. 

He threw up his head, flung around toward 
the strange horses he was leaving, and neighed 
—a sharp, shrill sound that carried up the slope 
like a bugle. 

At the mouth of the Flange Big Basford 
stopped. 

His own mount answered. 

Once more came that challenge from below 
and Sud Provine came back out of the hidden 
passage on the jump. 

“God damn!” he shouted, “that ain’t a Sky 
Line horse! Boys—we’re caught! Come quick!” 

Selwood, far down the trail, knew with a surge 
of rage that the game was up and that he was 
in for it. He knew in the same second, however, 
that his own horse was fresh, while those others 
were not. 

He clapped down hard with both spurs, got 
a good grip on his old gun, and sailed down the 
steep trail—“hell bent for election,” as he 
thought grimly. 

He had a fair start and meant to make the 
most of it. 

And he knew his horse. 

Knew that this long-legged bay was the best 


THE FLANGE IN RAINBOW CLIFF 189 

horse in the country, save and except Sud Pro¬ 
vine’s grey gelding with the filed shoe, and 
perhaps the rangy black which his new friend 
Smith rode. 

He could have wished that the grey was not 
behind him. 

It was dangerous work taking the slope of 
Mystery at a run, but there was danger behind 
and he chose the lesser evil. 

As if to make up for its defection the lean 
bay stretched and doubled like a greyhound and 
Selwood leaned low on its neck as best he could 
for the pitch—for he was listening for lead. 

He knew he was out of six-gun range, but he 
knew also that Sud Provine carried a rifle 
always on his saddle. 

The roar of horses running under difficulty— 
leaping, stiff-legged, sliding here and there 
came down like an avalanche of sound, but 
there were no voices mingled with it. The Sky 
Line men were riding in a silence so grim that 
it sent a chill to Setwood’s heart. They meant 

death—and were avid for it. 

He knew he was holding his own in the break¬ 
neck race, and presently it seemed he was gain¬ 
ing slightly. He came as near to praying as one 
of his ilk could do, that the good bay horse 
might keep its feet, for a fall now would be as 

fatal as capture. 

The trees sailed by against the stars, rushing 



190 


NAMELESS RIVER 


up from the dim darkness below to disappear 
into it above, and the wind sang in his ears like 
a harp. 

It seemed incredible that the tediously climbed 
slope could be so quickly descended—for he saw 
the thickening shadows of the mountain’s foot 
racing up toward him, the pale gleam of water 
beyond which meant the river. And then he 
heard what he had been dreading—the snap 
of a rifle, the whine of a ball. Sky Line, giving 
up capture, was trying for destruction. 

It was Provine he felt sure who held the gun. 

He dug in his spurs cruelly and the bay re¬ 
sponded with a surge of speed which seemed 
certain death, but kept its feet miraculously. 
Once more came the snap and whine—again— 
and again—and again—as fast as the man be¬ 
hind it could pump the rifle. 

And then, just as the bay struck the waters of 
Nameless with a leap and a roar, it seemed to 
Selwood that the heavens opened up, that all 
the fire in the universe flamed in his brain. 

He swung far out to the left, a terrible lever 
of weight to the gallant animal floundering be¬ 
neath him, and made the supreme physical effort 
of his life to get back into his saddle. His 
fingers dug into the wet mane like talons, he 
clawed desperately with his right heel and felt 
the spur hook. 

For what reason he could not have said, he 


THE FLANGE IN RAINBOW CLIFF 191 

opened his mouth and screamed—a hoarse, wild 
sound, like the soul’s farewell to its flesh. Per¬ 
haps he thought it was. 

Sud Provine, sitting his shivering horse where 
he had drawn it to a sliding stop on the trail 
above, deliberately shoved his gun into its sad¬ 
dle-straps. 

"I guess that’s th’ last of you, my buckko,” 
he gritted, “that’s your last ride, damn you! 
See how you like th’ water.” 

And he turned back up the slope. 

At dawn McKane, who slept in the store at 
Cordova, heard something untoward. It was 
a rapping that seemed to come from the floor 
of the porch outside—an odd, irregular stroke, 
as if the hand that made it was uncertain. 

He rose, drew on his pants and hooking his 
suspenders over his shoulders as he went, opened 
the front door. 

A bay horse, gaunt and bedraggled, stood at 
the porch’s shoulder-high edge, and hanging 
half out of its saddle, held only by the right 
spur still caught in the hair cinch and one arm 
around the pommel, was the sheriff. 

His ghastly face was red with blood from the 
long wound which had split his scalp from just 
above the left ear across the temple to the end 
of the eyebrow. 

The trader leaped forward, jumped to the 
ground and caught him in his arms. 


192 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“My good God, Price!” lie cried, “say you 
ain’t dead! You ain’t bad hurt—Oh, my God!” 

Selwood looked at him with eyes that seemed 
dull as ashes. 

“-solved—mystery-” he said thickly. 

“-rustlers—raid—caught with the goods— 

they are-” 

The thick voice failed and Sheriff Price Sel¬ 
wood slumped down heavily on the shoulder of 
his erstwhile friend. 

It was to be long before he would finish his 
cryptic sentence. 






CHAPTER XVI 


THE ANCIENT MIRACLE 

■\ 

News in the mountains travels fast, by mysteri¬ 
ous ways, and in places where it seems impossi¬ 
ble. Also it has marvelous powers of mutation. 
What may start out far down on Little Beaver 
Dam as an innocent prank, is liable to reach the 
Upper Sweet Water as a full-fledged scandal. 

So it was on Nameless that drowsy day in 
August. 

Nance Allison was busy about her work in the 
scoured kitchen, with Sonny Fair following her 
like a small-sized shadow. 

In the dim regions beyond Mrs. Allison was 
in bed with a “sick headache.” The balls of 
the carpet-rags had been sadly put away, all 
finished and ready for the loom, but farther 
away from that desired goal than ever. It 
seemed to Nance that that carpet w T as the last 
straw, the ridiculous small pressure that had 
all but snapped the thread of her control. When¬ 
ever she thought of Kate Cathrew she thought 
not of her Pappy, not of Bud with his sagging 
shoulder, not of her burned stacks and her field 

193 


194 


NAMELESS RIVER 


of growing corn, bnt of the bare floors of her 
poor home. 

There was a frown between her golden brows 
these days, a grim set to her lips, and she spent 
many hours on her knees beside her bed praying 
for guidance, for strength to keep to her nar¬ 
row way. But the “stirrings” that she felt 
inside her in the spring had become a seething 
turmoil of passion, hard to hold. 

“I’m like the patriarchs of old,” she thought 
to herself, “filled with righteous wrath. If it 
wasn’t that I have the light of the New Testa¬ 
ment I’m afraid I’d go forth and slay my ene¬ 
mies, or try to.” 

“What you whimpering about, Nance? Tell 
me, too,” said the child hugging her knees and 
looking adoringly up with his soft brown eyes. 

“My gracious! Was I whimpering, Sonny?” 
she asked aghast, “I must be getting pretty far 
gone, as Brand says. Nance was thinking, that’s 
all—thinking about bad things that make her 
heart ache.” 

“Our enemies?” he asked quaintly. 

She nodded. 

“Yes—they’re ours, all right. Yours and 
Brand’s and mine.” 

There was a vague comfort in this associa¬ 
tion, in the common cause that seemed to bind 
her and hers to Brand and Sonny Fair. 

Brand and Sonny Fair—her thoughts went off 


THE ANCIENT MIRACLE 


195 


on the tangent which those two names always 
started. 

It was part of the trouble which made the 
frown habitual—the frown, so alien to the sweet 
and open face of this girl. 

Always there was under the surface of her 
mind the running question—What was Brand 
Fair to Sonny? And always there lurked in the 
dim background the word—Father. Was it 
true? Was the child his son? And if it was 
true—where and who was the mother? 

A deep and terrible ache seemed to take her 
very bones at this thought—a misery which she 
could not understand. 

She shook herself and sighed and tried to 
smile down at the boy, but the effort was a 
failure. 

4 ‘Nance,'’ he asked soberly, “don’t you love 
me any more?” 

The girl dropped on her knees and gathered 
him to her breast in a tierce gesture. 

“Love you? Honey child, Nance loves every 
inch of your little body! She loves you so well 
she’s scared to death Brand will come along 
some day and want to take you away again!” 

She sat back on her heels and smiled at him, 
this time successfully. If there was one spot of 
light in the darkness of her troubles it was the 
child. Always his pleading eyes, his shy ca¬ 
resses could lighten the load. 


196 


NAMELESS RIVER 


And so it was that presently she fell to 
laughing in her old light-hearted way, sitting 
back on her heels on the clean white floor and 
rolling the child this way and that. 

Screams of delight from Sonny punctuated the 
strokes of his bare feet as he kicked in the 
hysterical ecstasy of Nance’s fingers “creep- 
mous”-ing up his little ribs. 

They did not see Bud standing in the door, so 
absorbed in their game were they, until he 
moved and his shadow fell across them. 

Nance turned her laughing face up to him— 
and stared with the laughter set upon it. 

The boy was white as milk, his eyes black with 
terrible portent. 

“Bud,” she cried, “what’s up? What-” 

“The rustlers were out last night,” he said 
slowly with a strange hesitation—“I met Old 
Man Coni an going down to Cordova—a man 
was shot—they think it is—the prospector— 
Smith.” 

For a moment Nance sat still on her heels, her 
mouth open, the sickly lines of laughter still 
around it. 

Then she put out a hand that was beginning 
to shake—like an aged hand with palsy. 

“Smith?” she gasped, “that’s—Brand Fair! 
Oh—oh—dear Lord —Brand Fair!” 

For the first time in her life the bright sun- 




THE ANCIENT MIRACLE 


197 


light faded out and Nance Allison, who had 
fought so long and hard against tremendous 
odds, who had held her battle line and borne all 
things with the courage of a strong man swayed 
back upon the floor. 

Bud sprang forward to left her up, but al¬ 
ready the weakness was passing and she put 
him aside, getting to her feet. 

She forgot the child at her knee. 

“His enemies-” she was muttering to her¬ 

self, “and mine—they got him—at last—just as 
they tried to get me—and Jehoshaphat rose and 
went against his enemies—and the Lord was 
with him—I—I—Bud, give me that gun.” 

She took the rifle out of his hands with a 
savage motion and went from the cabin, swaying 
like a drunkard. 

At the corner of the stable she came face to 
face with Fair, who was just coming up from 
the river on Diamond. 

She stopped and stared at him like one in a 
daze. 

“You!” she said presently. “You—Brand?” 

The man saw at once that there was something 
gravely wrong and dismounted quickly. 

He came forward and laid a hand on hers 
where it grasped the weapon. 

“Sure—my dear,” he said carefully, “don’t 
look so, Nance—I’m all right. Let me have 
this,” and took the gun away. 



198 


NAMELESS RIVER 


He put his right arm gently around her and 
looked over her head at her brother. 

4 ‘Tell me,” his eyes commanded. 

“I just told her what I heard this morning,’’ 
said Bud, “that a man was shot by rustlers and 
that it was Smith—you. She said something 
about one of the Bible men who went out and 
slew his enemies—and she was starting for Sky 
Line, I think.” 

There was no need to ask more, for Nance had 
covered her face with her shaking hands and 
bending forward on Fair’s breast was weeping 
terribly. 

The man drew her close and held her, and 
the dark eyes that gazed down at her shining 
head with its neat braids, were grave and very 
tender. 

At last he said quietly, “It was our friend, 
Sheriff Selwood, but he is not dead. He’s at 
his ranch, but he cannot talk—and no one knows 
who shot him. Sky Line drove down this morn¬ 
ing—all regular and humdrum. McKane says 
Selwood knows—that he tried to tell him who 
the rustlers of Nameless are, but that he could 
not. When he comes round there’ll be some¬ 
thing doing in this neck of the woods, or I miss 
my guess. Come, Nance—aren’t you going to 
invite me to dinner? I’ve got four prime grey 
squirrels in my saddle-bags, and my canteen’s 



THE ANCIENT MIRACLE 


199 


full of honey—found a bee tree down the river/’ 

And with the gentle tact of deep understand¬ 
ing and something more, Fair drew Nance back 
from the edge of tragedy to the safe ground of 
the commonplace. 

She straightened up, wiped her hands down 
across her cheeks and looked at him with eyes 
in which the tears still glistened. 

“I thought,” she said unsteadily, 44 that Kate 
Cathrew had had you shot.” 

4 4 She ’ll have to get up earlier than I do if 
she pulls that trick,” he laughed, 44 I’ve been too 
long on guard.” 

Two days later Nameless was ringing with 
the news of the raid and Bossick was grim and 
silent. 

When the Sky Line riders came back from 
their drive they rattled into Cordova for the 
mail and stood on the porch. 

4 4 Still watchin’ your range?” queried Pro¬ 
vine insolently as he swung out of his saddle 
and without a word the rancher leaped for him. 
He caught him by the neck and they both fell 
under Silvertip’s feet'. The horse sprang away 
and in a second the two men were trying to 
kill each other with all the strength there was 
in them. 

44 You damned dirty thief!” gritted Bossick, 
44 if the law won’t get you I’ll take a hand!” 


200 


NAMELESS RIVER 


He was a heavy man, stocky and square, with 
tremendous thews, but the other was the wiry 
type and younger, so that they were not so un¬ 
evenly matched, and it bade fair to be a lively 
affray. 

But Big Basford, temper flaming as usual, 
pulled his gun from the holster and flung it 
down in line. 

“Roll over, Sud!” he shouted, “I’ll fix him!” 

Provine endeavored to roll away from Bos- 
sick, but the rancher held him, pounding him the 
while with all the fury of outraged right, and 
the blue gun-muzzle in Basford’s hand traveled 
with their convolutions, seeking a chance to kill 
his man. 

The huge unkempt body leaned down from its 
saddle, the red eyes glittered and that traveling 
muzzle stretched closer to the men on the 
ground. It looked like certain death for Bossick, 
when there came the sudden crack of a gun 
from the doorway, and the weapon dropped 
from Basford’s broken hand. The horse he was 
riding screamed and reared with a red ribbon 
spurting from its breast where the glancing ball 
had seared it. 

“I’m sorry to hurt the horse,” said Smith 
the prospector, watching the group with narrow 
dark eyes above the steady barrel, “but I’m not 
so particular with assassins. We’ll see fair 
play. ’ ’ 


THE ANCIENT MIRACLE 


SOI 

And they did see fair play, a tense and silent 
gathering the Sky Line men sitting their horses 
on the one side, McKane, Smith, the bearded man 
from the Upper Country who had witnessed 
another fight on the same spot, and several more, 
on the other. 

It was stone-hard fair play without quarter, 
and when it was over Bossick rose, a bloody 
and disheveled figure, and glared at the riders. 

“Take him home,” he said, “to your rustlers’ 
nest, you--!” 

“That’s fighting talk, Bossick,” said Cald¬ 
well in a thin voice, “but this ain’t th’ time or 
place.” 

“You’re damn right, it ain’t!” said Bossick, 
“not when there’s even numbers and no odds 
for vou! You’ll wait for dark and one man 
alone—like Price Selwood was.” 

Sud Provine, getting dizzily to his feet, shot 
a lightning glance at the speaker. His pulped 
face lost a shade of color. No one spoke and 
Bossick went on. 

“When Selwood comes round I’m layin’ 
there’s goin’ to be such a stir-up as this country 
never saw—and don’t you forget it!” 

“Comes round?” said Caldwell, as if the words 
were jerked from him against his will. 

“Yes—comes round so he can talk—can tell 
what he knows of the rustlers of Nameless and 
who was the dirty skunk that shot him in the 






202 


NAMELESS RIVER 


back. There’s a good coil rope inside this store 
that’s going to make history for the Deep Heart 
cattle country.” 

“Hell!” said Caldwell, and laughed in a high 
thin treble as he pulled his horse around, 
“you’re amusin’, Bossick.” 

“Yes,” snapped Bossick balefully, “your 
whole bunch seems quite hilarious. Now, get 
out of Cordova.” 

Without another word being passed on either 
side the Sky Line men rode out in a compact 
bunch, Provine and Basford nursing their hurts, 
the rest silent. 

Bossick turned to the stranger. 

“I want to thank you, Mister,” he said, “for 
being here.” 

“It was a very great pleasure,” said Brand 
Fair, alias Smith. “I thought perhaps I’d for¬ 
gotten how to shoot.” 

With that he mounted Diamond and rode 
away, but two hours later he was waiting for 
Bossick on his home trail, where he intercepted 
him. 

“Mr. Bossick,” he said, “I think you’re solid, 
so I take this liberty. I want to tell you that 
Sheriff Selwood and myself have picketed Sky 
Line for some weeks, alternately—so it was a 
Cathrew man who shot him, beyond question. 
Now let’s talk.” 

A little later Bossick knew all that Brand and 


THE ANCIENT MIRACLE 


203 


the sheriff knew concerning the hidden passage 
that opened into Blue Stone, and he was softly 
profane with amazement. 

“There’s Old Man Conlan,” he told Fair, 
“and Jermyn and Reston farther up, who can 
he depended on. We’ll go to them at once.” 

“I didn’t trust McKane,” said Fair, “do 
you ?’ ’ 

“In one way he’s all right—in another, no. 
He’s crazy over Cattle Kate Cathrew and would 
certainly serve her if possible. It’s best he 
doesn’t know any more than he does. You 
were wise to come out here to talk.” 

Fair laughed. 

“I’ve set a guard around the sheriff’s house,” 
he said, “put six of his cowboys on double shift. 
I knew they would find out that he is still alive 
and might try to finish the job—so he would 
never talk—Sky Line, I mean. And now, Mr. 
Bossick, I think we’d better go talk to Jermyn 
and the rest. I’m only sorry Selwood isn’t able 
to be with us.” 

“This is a pretty bunch to bring back to me, 
Caldwell,” said Kate Cathrew, tapping her foot 
with a whip, “one man disabled and another 
pounded into jelly. Who’s this damn stranger 
who’s so handy with his gun?” 

“Name’s Smith,” said the foreman sulkily, 
“and I’d better tell you right now, that Selwood 



204 


NAMELESS RIVER 


isn’t dead. He’s alive and they’re waiting for 
him to come round so he can—talk.” 

Cattle Kate’s face flamed red. 

“Not dead? Bring Provine here!” 

But she would not wait as was her wont when 
summoning her men. She whirled and strode 
along the veranda to meet Provine who came in 
no good grace. 

‘‘I’ve a notion to kill you on the spot!” she 
cried furiously, “you fool bungler! Of all the 
crazy, wild, impossible things! Why didn’t you 
get that man? The one person in the world who 
knew of The Flange and Rainbow’s Pot behind! 
You let him get away!” 

“Done my best,” said the man evilly, “an’ 
to hell with those who don’t like it.” 

Quick as a flash the woman raised her whip 
and struck him. 

With a roar he returned the blow, and Big 
Basford who had followed, leaped for him, 
clawing with his good hand, but Caldwell 
knocked Provine down instead. 

“Take him away,” said Kate Cathrew coldly, 
her hand at her cheek, “Lawrence Arnold will 
be here soon. I’ll let him deal with this.” 

It was night again and the stars were hung 
like lanterns in the sky. The little wind was 
coming up the river, the little soft wind that 
Nance Allison loved. 


THE ANCIENT MIRACLE 205 

Once more she sat in the doorway with Brand 
Fair beside her. There was no light on the table 
this time, so that she could not see his face with 
its quiet dark eyes, its thick hair above and the 
straight line of his lips with their gentle smile. 
But the feel of his arm against her own as he 
held the sleeping child, set up that nameless 
longing in her, the glowing glory of unknown 
joy which had become of late a sadness. 

She was tilled with vague sorrows and pre¬ 
monitions, as if, having found the priceless 
possession of this man’s companionship, she 
was about to lose it. 

It was not death wholly that she feared, but 
a more subtle thing, an inhibition of the spirit, 
a gulf that seemed to lie all shadowy between 
them—a dark, mysterious gulf wherein the im¬ 
perious face of Kate Cathrew swirled amid the 
shadows. 

But presently Fair spoke and she shook oft 
her forebodings. 

“Nance,” he said softly, so low that his deep 
voice was scarce more than a whisper, “I have 
wanted to tell you more of my life and Sonny’s 
for a long time, but somehow it seemed too bad 
to add another’s burdens to those which you 
already bear, even though vicariously. How¬ 
ever, the time seems nearly ripe for me to reap 
the reward, one way or another, of those years 
of effort and hardship which I have spent run- 


206 


NAMELESS RIVER 


ning Kate Cathrew to earth. What this reward 
will be I don’t know, of course. No one can 
foretell. The men of Sky Line are a hard 
bunch, criminals and worse. They’ll never be 
dug out of that nest of theirs without a tight 
and a hard one. Somebody’s going to be killed, 
that’s certain!” 

He heard the girl catch her breath in a little 
gasp, and shifting Sonny, he put his arm around 
her. 

“However it does come out, there’s one thing 
I want to tell you, a package I want to give you 
for safekeeping. Will you listen, Nance?” 

The big’ girl nodded dumbly. Her heart was 
throbbing painfully, the breath labored in her 
lungs. A trembling set up along her muscles, 
and the stars seemed to dance on the black 
velvet of the sky. 

She was more conscious of that arm on her 
shoulder than she had ever been of anything in 
all her life. Its magnetic touch thrilled her to 
her fingertips. 

Gently Fair leaned down until his face was 
against her cheek, tightened his clasp. 

I have been all over this land of ours,” he 
said piesently, and in some several others. I 
have met many women—of many classes. I have 
been no saint and no great sinner. But always 
in my secret heart there has been a place all 
swept and garnished—and empty, Nance. 


THE ANCIENT MIRACLE 


207 


“That place—a holy spot, a shrine, if you 
will—most men would know what I mean—has 
been waiting—empty—all my life—because I 
never found the woman who fitted it. For its 
light there was no face to shine on, for its cool 
spaces no eyes to look down, for its marble 
floors no white feet to adore. Can you see what 
I mean, Nance, dear? It was the inner core of 
my heart, the veritable altar of my soul without 
a priestess. 

“Since the day in Blue Stone Canon when I 
first beheld you rocking the child in your lap— 
this secret place has been gloriously full. Nance 
—Nance—I have been like a worshipper without, 
laying my forehead to the sill. All the things 
I have dreamed of I find in you—the strength, 
the sweetness, the courage. You are beautiful 
as few women in this world are beautiful—and 
you are too good for any man. But I—have 
dared to love you.” 

He ceased and turned his lips against her 
cheek. 

For Nance Allison the stars were singing to¬ 
gether at the dawn of creation, the glory of the 
spheres had appeared before her. 

“Answer me, girl,” said Brand Fair tremu¬ 
lously, “tell me what’s in your heart.” 

“I—I-” said Nance, “I—think it is the 

light from the open gates of Paradise—the 
smile of God Himself—because I am so happy!” 




208 NAMELESS RIVER 

“Sonny, old-timer,” said Fair, “here’s where 
you take a back seat for once,” and he rolled 
the child, still sleeping like the healthy little 
animal he was, over on the floor. 

When the man arose to go some aeons later 
he gave Nance the package which he had taken 
from a pocket. 

“Keep it, Sweetheart,” he said, “and open 
it if—anything happens to me. It contains in¬ 
formation vital to Sonny's life and future— 
the address of the New York lawyer who knows 
all my affairs and his, and also copies of the 
proof he holds which can send Cattle Kate and 
Arnold and all their lot behind the bars for life. 
Take it straight to Sheriff Selwood if you have 
to act for me, and if he is alive and conscious. 
If not, Bossick will do in his stead. He's a 
good man. There’s a picture in that package. 
Nance—the face of Sonny's mother. But I'm 
not figuring that you’ll have any call to open 
if—not by a long shot. This is all by way of 
wise precaution, you know. Now give me one 
more kiss.” 

Brand Fair rode away and the girl he left 
upon the cabin's step was too far adrift on the 
seas of happiness to realize that he had not told 
her the one thing vital—who was Sonny's 
father? 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE FACE IN THE PACKAGE 

At last Nance Allison knew the meaning of the 
great light that seemed to glow upon all the 
world of the Deep Heart hills. 

Instinct awoke in her and she beheld the face of 
love. 

The knowledge set her trembling to her souPs 
foundation, sent her to her knees beside her big 
bed that she might return to that high Tribunal 
which arbited her ways such a deep devotion of 
thanksgiving as she had never made before. 

Abasement seized her. 

What was she in her loneliness and poverty, 
that such a man as Brand Fair might find her 
worthy! 

What had she ever done of valor that one 
might admire her! 

There was no light of courageous deeds upon 
her sordid life, no record of spectacular events 
in which she figured. 

She had merely been a drudge, working out 
Jier soul to carry on her father’s dreams of 
empire, to hold fast the place which he had left 
to her and hers. 


209 


210 


NAMELESS RIVER 


She had only labored and stood firm, watch¬ 
ing with anguished eyes the fruits of those 
labors being destroyed—she had made no effort 
to strike back at her enemies. 

And despite all this, Brand Fair loved her! 

Loved her and had laid his lips to hers in the 
first love-kiss of her life! 

Verily was she blessed beyond all reason and 
she lifted up her heart in praise. 

She did not see the austere beauty of that 
stern strength which held her true in the midst 
of affliction, which lifted those patient blue eyes 
of hers to the tranquil Heavens above her ruined 
fields, her burned stacks, which made her love 
her lonely land, her people and her God with 
unshaken devotion, which gave her peace in 
danger and set before her the burning beacon 
of right which could not fail to triumph. 

She only knew that she, lone toiler in an un¬ 
friendly wilderness, had been anointed of the 
Lord with unspeakable glory, and she was bowed 
into the dust with gratitude. 

It was a holy night she spent upon her knees 
in the soft darkness with her work-hardened 
hands clasped on the ancient coverlet and the 
long gold lashes trembling and wet upon her 
cheeks. It was an offertory, an adoration and 
a covenant. 

She felt the hours pass with benediction. 

Once she looked toward the little window and 


THE FACE IN THE PACKAGE 211 

saw the unfamiliar stars of the after-night upon 
the curtain of the sky. 

She heard the child’s soft breathing in the 
improvised crib beyond, and at false dawn she 
heard Old John crow from the rafters. 

At the first grey light she lifted her face and 
with a smile at her lips’ corners she murmured 
the ancient words of David’s immortal thanks¬ 
giving : 

“The King shall joy in Thy strength, 

Oh, Lord; and in Thy salvation how 
greatly shall he rejoice! For Thou hast 
made him most blessed forever; Thou 
hast made him exceeding glad with 
Thy countenance. Thou hast given him 
the desire of his heart. Selah.” 

“Mammy,” she said at breakfast, “I’ve got 
to tell you something—you and Bud.” 

There was a soft radiance about her long blue 
eyes, a helpless surrender to the smiles that 
would keep coming on her features. 

Her mother looked at her calmly. 

“Well?” she said. 

But over Bud’s young face there passed a 
spasm of pain. 

“You needn’t tell it,” he said sharply, “we 
k n 0 w—don’t we, Mammy? It’s Brand—” 

“Sure, we know, Nance, honey,” said Mrs. 
Allison gently, “an’ we want to tell you, Bud 



NAMELESS RIVER 


212 

an’ I, liow plumb happy we are—how glad we 
are to see happiness come to the best daughter, 
the best sister, two people ever had on this 
here earth. Ain’t we, Buddy?” 

The boy swallowed once, then looked at Nance 
and smiled. 

It was not the least courageous thing he was 
ever to accomplish, that smile, and his mother 
knew it, for he adored the girl, and she had 
been his only playmate all his life. 

But at his mother’s sutble words jealousy died 
and love stepped back triumphantly. 

“We sure are, Sis,” he said and kissed her 
on the cheek. 

The child slept late that morning. Perhaps 
he had been more or less disturbed by Nance’s 
wakefulness. She stepped to the bedroom door 
once and looked at him, but left him there. 

“We might as well sit down,” she said, “he’s 
fast asleep yet and I can feed him when he does 
get up.” 

They talked gaily all through the meal, re¬ 
viewing the wonder that had come to Nance, 
and it seemed a new future was opening before 
them all. 

“Brand seems like one of us already,” said 
Mrs. Allison, “an’ I think with joy what a help 
he’ll be to you an’ Bud—tli’ land is rich an’ 
will keep us all in plenty with a man like him 
to manage an’ to stand between us an’ Sky 


THE FACE IN THE PACKAGE 


213 


Line. An’ he’s like yonr Pappy was—kind an’ 
still, a strength an’ a hope for us. If Bud is 
willin’ we’ll offer him share an’ share.” 

44 Sure,” said the boy decidedly. 

When he had once capitulated Bud stood firm, 
wholeheartedly backing his decision. 

“I just don’t seem able to grasp it all,” said 
Nance happily, 4 4 it seems like our whole life 
has changed overnight. There is light where 
darkness was, hope again where I’d about given 
it up—and now we’ll never have to give up 
Sonny.” 

4 4 That’s so!” cried Mrs. Allison, 4 4 an’ I 
hadn’t thought of that. Never seemed like we 
would any way—bless him.” 

44 Me?” asked a fresh little voice from the 
doorway, and the child stood, there, rumple- 
headed, in his small night-gown made from flour- 
sacks. The faded red lettering still stood 
frankly out across his diminutive stomach. 

44 Yes—you,” said Nance, 44 come here to your 
own Nance.” 

Sonny sidled in, holding up the hindering gar¬ 
ment with one hand, the other shut over some 
small article. 

As Nance lifted him to her lap he laid this 
on the table’s edge. 

44 See,” he said, 44 the pretty lady. She was in 
a bundle on your bed—where’d you get her, 
Nance?” 


214 


NAMELESS RIVER 


And Nance Allison looked down into the pic¬ 
tured face of—Cattle Kate Cathrew. 

For a moment the laughter still drew her lips, 
the soft light of happiness still illumined her 
eyes. 

Then the light and the laughter were erased 
from her features as if an invisible hand had 
wiped them. 

In their place came first a blankness, an in¬ 
credulity—then, as realization and memory 
struck home to her brain, the anguish of death 
itself swept across her face. 

She stared with dilating pupils at the small 
picture. 

“Nance!” cried her mother, “Nance!” 

She raised her eyes and looked at Mrs. Allison 
and the latter felt a chill of fear. 

“Take—Sonny, Bud,” she said slowly, “and 
get his clothes.” 

Bud, tactful and quiet, did as she asked, and 
when she was alone with her mother the girl 
held out the picture. 

“Brand told me—last night,” she said halt- 
ingly, that a package he gave me—to open in 
case anything happened—to him—held the face 

of—of—of Sonn 7 ,s mother. This is Cattle 
Kate Cathrew.” 

“My g° od Lord A’mighty!” ejaculated Mrs. 
Allison. 

Nance nodded. 


THE FACE IN THE PACKAGE 


215 


* 4 Then—who’s his—father?” 

“Who d’you suppose, Mammy?” asked the 
girl miserably, “I’m afraid it’s Brand—the 
man who says he loves me!” 

The gaunt old mother came round the table 
and put an unaccustomed arm about her 
daughter’s shoulders. Caresses were rare with 
her. 

“No,” she said decidedly, “Brand Fair ain’t 
a deceiver. I’d stake a lot on that. I feel to 
trust him, honey. Whatever is wrong in this 
terrible tangle, it ain’t Brand—an’ you can take 
your old Mammy’s word on that.” 

The girl straightened her shoulders, lifted her 
head. 

“I do trust him, Mammy,” she said gallantly, 
“whatever has happened in the past I know it 
has not made him a liar—and I feel to he 
ashamed of myself.” 

“Needn’t,” said Mrs. Allison succinctly, “it’s 
natural—th’ age-old instinct oi jealousy. Come 
down from our naked ancestors when th’ man 
was th’ food-getter an’ th’ woman fought with 
tooth an’ nail if another female hove in sight. 
You’d like to go right out now an’ scratch that 
woman’s eyes out, wouldn’t you?” 

A sickly smile trembled on Nance’s lips. 

“I guess I would,” she said unsteadily, “be¬ 
cause—you see—if—if she’s his wile—why he 
can’t take another.” 



216 


NAMELESS RIVER 


“There’s divorce laws in this country, ain’t 
there? How do yon know she’s his wife now?” 

“Mammy,” said Nance gratefully, “you’re 
the most wonderful woman I ever knew! 
You’ve got more reason than a houseful of 
lawyers. And I’m going to take heart right 
now. I’ll put this picture away in the package 
and wait till Brand is ready to tell me all about 
it—and I’ll stand steady in my love and my 
faith.” 

”That’s my big girl!” said the mother, “now 
get to work at something. It’s th’ best cure-all 
on earth.” 

Cattle Kate Cathrew sat on the broad veranda 
at Sky Line. She was clad like a sybarite, in 
shining satin. Rings sparkled on her fingers, 
lights sparkled in her hard eyes, a close-held 
excitement was visible in her whole appearance. 
She looked down across the vast green-clad 
slopes of Mystery and held her breath that she 
might the better listen for a. sound in the still¬ 
ness. 

For she was waiting for the writer of those 
letters, the man from New York who came at 
regular intervals to bask in the peace of Sky 
Line—for Lawrence Arnold himself. 

It had been months since she had seen him, 
and the passion in her was surging like molten 
lava. 


THE FACE IN THE PACKAGE 217 

It made her heart heat in slow, heavy strokes, 
too deeply charged for swiftness. It made her 
lips dry as fast as she could wet them, set a 
feeling of paralysis along the muscles of her 
arms. 

She was in a trance of expectation, as exquisite 
as the fullest realisation. She had been so ever 
since the departure at early dawn of Provine 
with a led horse—none other than Bluefire whose 
proud back no one but this man ever crossed, 
except herself. 

For three hours she had sat in the rustic rocker 
like a graven image, her hands spread on the 
broad arms, her immaculate black head seem¬ 
ingly at rest against the back. 

And not a soul at Sky Line would have dis¬ 
turbed her. 

From a distant corral where he tinkered at 
some trivial task Big Basford watched her with 
wild red eyes. At these times the man was a 
savage who would have killed Arnold joylully 
had the thing been possible. Minnie Pine, busy 
at the kitchen window, watched him. 

“The Black Devil is in hell, Josef a/’ she said 
guardedly, “he knows the master’s coming— 
and that the Boss will lie in his arms.” 

“He pays for his sins,” said Josefa calmly, 
“which is more than the others do.” 

“Bod,” returned the half-breed, “has no 


sms. 



218 NAMELESS RIVER 

“He-ugh! He-ugh!” laughed the old woman, 
“so says the young fool because she loves him.” 

“I know what I know,” said Minnie, “the 
Blue Eyes has a clean heart. One sin, maybe, 
yes—or two, maybe—but he sits sometimes with 
his head in his hands, and he mourns—like our 
people for death. He says it is for death— 
death of a man’s honor killed by mistake. I 
know, for I’ve sat with him then—and he has 
put his face in my neck.” 

There was a high beauty about the simple 
words and the ancient dame looked at the girl 
with understanding. For a moment the cyni¬ 
cism was absent. 

“You speak truth,” she said softly, “the man 
is a stranger to these others. Also he is of a 
white heart. He should have been a Porno chief 
in the old days. 

Noon came and passed and Ivate Cathrew did 
not eat. 

She watched the sun drop over toward the 
west, the pine shadows turn on the slopes. 

And then, far down, she caught the sound 
of hoofs and rose straight up from her chair, 
one hand on her thundering heart. The action 
was her only concession to the fierce emotion 
which was eating her. When Sud Provine came 
out of the pines below with Bluefire and his 
rider in convoy she was seated again in the 


THE FACE IN THE PACKAGE 219 

broad-armed rocker, to all intents as calm as 
moonlight on snow. 

Lawrence Arnold dismounted stiffly and 
handed the rein to Provine, then raised his eyes 
and looked at her. 

Over his white-skinned, aquiline features 
there passed a smile of the closest understand¬ 
ing. 

He knew the volcano covered in and shut from 
sight under this woman’s cool exterior—this 
woman who was his woman. 

Cattle Kate rose languidly and came to meet 
him and her brilliant eyes returned the under¬ 
standing to the nth degree—they were full of 
passion, of promise. 

"Man,” she said under her breath, as their 
hands met, "Oh, man! It’s been so long!” 

That was all for the prying eyes that com¬ 
passed them. 

They entered the house and Minnie Pine 
served the meal which had been waiting and 
which was the best Sky Line could produce, 
and afterward Lawrence Arnold reclined on a 
blanket-covered couch in the living-room and 

smoked in smiling peace. 

Kate Cathrew sat near, her eyes devouring 
his slim form, and talked swiftly of many vital 

matters. 

"Ho you need any new men?” he asked her, 


NAMELESS RIVER 


220 

“I have two who would be good. One is out 
on bail—mine—the other was acquitted, as 
usual. Both will crawl. ” 

“No,” said Kate, “and I want to give you 
back one I have—Provine. He is insubordinate. 
Deal with him hard.” 

Arnold nodded. 

“Was the last shipment O.K.?” asked Kate. 
“Have I done well, my master?” 

She smiled jestingly, but the title was true 
in every sense of the word. 

“Exceedingly,” he answered, “the shipment 
was prime and we cleaned up on it. In my grips 
there are several little trinkets for you, bought 
with some of the surplus. I commend you.” 

He reached for her hand and the woman 
flushed with pleasure. 

“This new shipment,” she said, “can you 
trust your agent to float it?” 

“Absolutely, or I wouldn’t be here.” 

“It goes out in a few days—as soon as the 
hue-and-cry dies down a bit. There is plenty of 
feed in Rainbow’s Pot to hold the herd several 
weeks, if need be, but I like to get clear as quick 
as possible.” \ 

“Good work. You’re a clever girl, Kate. 
We’re making money fast. One thing more— 
have you succeeded in getting hold of the big 
feeding flats on the river?” 

Kate frowned. 



THE FACE IN THE PACKAGE 221 

“No—the damned poor trash hang on like 
grim death. I’ve done everything bnt kill them, 
and they’re still there.” 

“That’s too bad,” said the man, “I guess 
maybe you need a little help. Wliat have you 
done?” 

“Everything. Used all the arts of intimida¬ 
tion I know—and destroyed their livelihood.” 

“H’m,” said Arnold, “must be a pretty 
courageous outfit. Who are they?” 

“Old Missouri mother—boy—and a big slab- 
sided girl who’s the whole backbone of the 
family. Impudent baggage. You remember 
when the old man—ah—fell down Rainbow a 
couple of years ago?” 

Arnold nodded again. 

“Well, they’re trash— trash/' said Kate, 
“and stick to the flats like burrs. The girl’s 
religious. Talked some drivel about the hand 
of God being before her face, and came out 
flat-footed and said—before a crowd at the stoie, 
loo—that those flats would feed a lot of cattle 
through, and that maybe I had a—hope—con¬ 
cerning them.” 

“The devil she did!” said Arnold, sitting up. 
“I rather think you do need another head to 

handle this.” 

“And that isn’t all,” said the woman. 
“Sheriff Selwood is knocked out at present, but 
he watched the boys drive this last bunch into 


NAMELESS RIVER 


222 

the Pot. He rode to the very Flange itself. 
We’ve got to get these cattle down the Pipe and 
out before he conies round—though from what 
we can hear, it don’t seem likely he’ll come 
round. Sud shot him in the head. I think he’ll 
die myself, or I’d have driven out by now.” 

Arnold was looking at her sharply. 

“That’s where you’re wrong, Kate,” he said 
decidedly, “ never take chances on the human 
system. I’ve seen a man come to after being 
electrocuted. We’ll get busy right now—to¬ 
morrow. In the meantime, please remember 
that I haven’t seen you for many moons. Let’s 
talk of love, tonight.” 

There was a step at the door, and a dusty 
rider stood there. 

“Want to report,” he said, “that I’ve just 
come up the Pipe and I found tracks—brushed 
out at the mouth in Blue Stone—there were 
two men on foot. No hoof-marks. They looked 
in behind the willows.” 

Kate Cathrew rose straight up to her feet. 

“Hell’s fire!” she said. 


CHAPTER XVm 


THE FIGHTING LINE AT LAST 

Brand Fair haunted the Selwood ranch. He 
hnng to the side of the unconscious man almost 
night and day. 

“What do you think, doctor!” he asked 
anxiously of the medical man brought in from 
Bement. 

“Frankly, I don’t think,” said that worthy, 
“these lapses, superinduced by concussion, are 
treacherous things. He may recover suddenly, 
or he may die without regaining consciousness. 
It’s a gamble.” 

But anxious as he was to know the secret 
locked in the unconscious brain of Price Seh 
wood, Fair had not been idle. 

He and Bossick had been very busy. 

Many things had been done, a plan arranged, 
secret conclaves held at which grim and deter¬ 
mined men sat their horses and pledged them¬ 
selves to do a certain thing. 

Then Fair went to the cabin on Nameless, for 
the longing in his heart to see Nance Allison 

grew with every passing hour. 

He held her in his arms and kissed her fore- 

223 


224 


NAMELESS RIVER 


head and her smooth cheeks, touched the shin¬ 
ing coronet of her hair with reverent hands. 

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, after the age- 
old fashion of lovers, " there was never a 
woman like you! You are my light in dark 
places, my rain in the desert. Oh, Nance, what 
if I had never found you!” 

And the girl leaned on his heart in an ecstasy 
of love that was shot with sadness, holding fast 
to her trust with desperate hands. 

4 ‘It’s bound to come soon now,” he told her, 
“we are organized and ready—only waiting for 
Selwood, poor fellow, to regain his reason that 
he may tell us where to strike.” 

"There’ll be gun-play and—blood,” said 
Nance miserably, "and I pray God that you 
will not be taken. I—I couldn’t lose you, 
Brand, and live. I wouldn’t dare to live—for if 
they kill you—Oh, that black hatred which has 
stirred in me so long, is getting beyond my 
strength to hold it! I’ll go mad and turn killer, 
Brand if they kill you! I know it—I feel 

it here-” she laid eloquent hands on her 

heart—"and then my soul will go into the pit 
of damnation.” 

“Hush!” said Fair holding her to him 
fiercely, "for the love of Heaven, don’t talk so, 
child! And get that thought out of your head. 
Whatever happens, keep your hands clean from 
that crowd of ruffians—and always remember 




THE FIGHTING LINE AT LAST 225 


that Brand Fair loved yon. If we fail and the 
Sky Line people stay in the country, I beg you, 
Nance, to leave Nameless Biver. Take your 
mother and Bud—and—and Sonny—and go 
away to a more civilized spot. You can make 
another start. There’s a little money in a New 
York bank for the boy—the papers in the pack¬ 
age will explain—and I know you love him-” 

But Nance laid her face on his breast and 
fell to weeping, so that Fair anathematized him¬ 
self for his grave words. 

“It seems,” she said, sobbing, “that we have 
reached the bottom—of all things—hope—and— 
and strength—and happiness. And my grasp on 
God is failing—He has turned His face from 
me—I am lost to the light of His countenance— 
because of the hatred in me. I have stood firm 
through tribulation but now—when I think of 
you—I feel my strength desert me.” 

“Buck up,” scoffed the man playfully, “we’ll 
all come through with colors flying and see this 
nest of vipers caged. Then think of life on 
Nameless, Nance—safe and happy, with our 
fields and our herds and peace in all the land. 
I shouldn’t have suggested anything else. Come 
—be my brave girl again, my good fighter.” 

Obedient to his words, Nance straightened and 
tried to smile in the starlight. 

“That’s it,” he said, “you’re resilient as 
willow wood—ready with a come-back. You’ll 





226 NAMELESS RIVER 

never leave the line, Sweetheart, never in this 
world! * ’ 

It was late in the night when Fair rode away. 

He went south, going back to look again on 
the quiet face of Sheriff Selwood, then on to 
the Deep Heart fringes to meet Bossick and 
Jermyn. 

As for Nance Allison, she was seized with a 
great restlessness that made inaction unbear¬ 
able. 

“I think I’ll ride the lower slopes of Mystery, 
Mammy,” she said next morning, “and look 
for that black shoat that’s missing. I can’t af¬ 
ford to lose it.” 

The mother looked at her with worried eyes. 

“You take your Pappy’s gun,” she said at 
last. “I feel to tell you so. Th’ time has 
come.” 

But the girl shook her head. 

“I don’t care,” she said, “I can’t trust 
myself of late.” She kissed Sonny, ran a hand 
over Bud’s bronze hair, and went out to the 
stable where she saddled Buckskin and rode 
away. 

Dirk, sitting gravely on the door-stone, begged 
to go with her, but she forbade him. 

So she passed the bleak ruin of her corn¬ 
field, crosed the river, low in its summer ebb, 
and struck up among the buck-brush and man- 
zanita that clothes the lower slopes. 


THE FIGHTING LINE AT LAST 227 


It was a sweet blue day with the summer 
haze on slant and level, cool with the little 
winds that were ever drawing up between the 
hills, silent with the eternal hush of the far 
places. 

All the wilderness smiled, the heavens, blue 
and flecked with sailing clouds, were soft as 
infants’ eyes. 

Nature opened appealing arms to this child 
of her bosom and Nance, sad and apprehensive 
as she had never been in her life before, went 
into them and was comforted. 

She raised her eyes to the distant rimrock, 
shining above Rainbow Clift which was dark 
and sombre at this early hour, and felt its 
austere beauty. She watched the cloud-shadows 
drifting on the tapestried shoulders of the 
mountains and knew the sight for what it was 
of privilege and blessing. 

So, as the little horse beneath her scrambled 
eagerly up the slants, the peace of the waiting 
hills fell upon her with healing and the sadness 
eased away. 

In every likely place she looked and listened 
for the black shoat, but it seemed to have dis¬ 
appeared from the face of the earth, like the 
six fat steers. She followed a small ravine for 
longer than she had intended, sat for a while 
in a sunny opening high along the breast of 
Mystery, and sidled back toward the west again. 


228 NAMELESS RIVER 

And here it was that two men far above 
looked down and saw her with ejaculations of 
delight. 

“Well, if this ain’t luck!” said Provine grin¬ 
ning, “then I’m a liar! I thought this morning 
when Arnold handed us that last bunch of in¬ 
structions that he was due for once to come out 
th’ little end of th’ horn. I didn’t see how any 
human was goin’ to be able to carry them out. 
I didn’t think we’d ever get near enough to get 
her and do it on th’ q. t. But she’s brought her¬ 
self to us!” 

“If she’s armed,” said Caldwell shortly, “it’s 
not time yet to crow. I think she’d fight.” 

# “Fight, hell!” said the other, “she don’t be¬ 
lieve in fightin’. She’s religious. We’ll pick 
her up too easy an’ present her to th’ Boss with 
our compliments.” 

An hour later Nance, riding along a dim trail 
made by the traveling hoofs of deer, came out 
above a spring in a pretty glade. 

She was warm and thirsty, so she dismounted 
and pushing back her hat from her sweated fore¬ 
head, knelt on the spring’s lip and putting her 
face to the limpid water, drank long and eagerly 
a foot from Buckskin’s muzzle. 

As she straightened up, wiping her mouth 
with the back of her hand, she caught a sound 
where had been deep silence before—the sound 
of something moving, the rattle of accoutre- 


THE FIGHTING LINE AT LAST 229 


ments, and turning quickly, still upon her knees, 
she looked up into the grinning face of Sud 
Provine, the frowning one of the Sky Line fore¬ 
man. 

4 ‘By Jing!” said Provine wonderingly, “never 
havin’ seen you outside that there oP bonnet 
of yours I didn’t know how purty you was! 
Them eyes now—they’re right blue, ain’t they? 
An’ that wide mouth—all wet where you stopped 
wipin’ it-” 

“You damn fool!” said Caldwell disgustedly, 
“shut up and mind the business entrusted to 
you. Miss Allison,” he said to Nance, “you’re 
just the person we wanted to see. We were 
sent this morning to fetch you to Sky Line, so 
you may as well go along sensibly, for we’ll take 
you any way.” 

Nance rose to her feet. 

A pink flush came slowly up along her throat 
to dye her cheeks and chin. The slow heave in¬ 
side her which she knew for the dangerous 
“stirrings” seemed to slow the beating of her 
heart to a ponderous stroke. 

“Then you’ll have to take me,” she said 
curtly, “for I’ll not ride a step with any one 
from Sky Line.” 

She swung into her saddle and struck her 
heels to Buckskin’s sides in a forlorn hope of 
escape—little Buckskin, stocky, slow and faith¬ 
ful. 



230 


NAMELESS RIVER 


Provine laughed again and dashed forward 
with a leap of his grey Silvertip that put him 
alongside in a second. 

“Ain’t no nse, purty,” he said and canght 
her rein. 

He turned the little horse up the slope, Cald¬ 
well fell in close behind and in a matter of two 
minutes Nance Allison was a prisoner headed 
for Sky Line Ranch. 

The pink flush was gone entirely from her 
face, leaving it pale as wax. Her lips were 
faintly ashen. 

“You needn’t be so scared,” said the irre¬ 
pressible Provine, “we won’t hurt you.” 

The girl turned her eyes upon him and they 
were black with the dilation of the pupils which 
always accompanied extreme emotion in her. 

“Scared?” she said thickly, “I was never less 
scared in my life.” 

With the words she was conscious of a pas¬ 
sionate longing for the feel of her Pappy’s old 
gun in her hands. 

“Help me, Lord!” she whispered inaudibly, 
“Oh, my God, be not far from me!” 

They followed no trail, but cut through thicket 
and glade in a lifting angle well calculated to 
bring them out at the cluster of buildings at the 
foot of Rainbow Cliff. 

This was new country to Nance. 

She had never been so high on Mystery Ridge. 



THE FIGHTING LINE AT LAST 231 


She noticed how the buck-brush and manzanita 
had given place to yew and pine and hr tree, 
how the slants steepened sharply as they neared 
the summit. 

She had told the truth when she said she was 
not frightened. 

There was no fear in her, only a deep and 
surging anger that seemed to make her lungs 
labor for sufficient air. Her usually smiling 
lips were set together in a thin line. 

To a student of physiognomy she would have 
presented an appearance of volcanic repression, 
her very calmness would have been a danger 
signal. 

But the two men who formed her guard were 
not of sufficient mental keenness to read the 
silent signs. 

So, in silence, save for Provine’s occasional 
jesting observations, they climbed the breast of 
the great ridge and presently struck into the 
well-worn trail which led direct to Sky Line. 

The sun was well over toward the west and 
the towering rock-face was resplendent in its 
magic tints when they rode out of the clump 
of pines and saw the ranch house sitting low and 
spreading above its high veranda, in the open. 

At the broad steps to the right Nance was 
ordered to dismount. 

Provine took Buckskin and Caldwell motioned 
her to ascend the steps. With her head up and 


232 


NAMELESS RIVER 


her month tight shut Nance Allison strode for¬ 
ward into the stronghold of her enemies. 

The door was open, and she saw first only a 
pale darkness within as she stopped on the 
threshold. 

Then, pushed forward by the foreman with 
a none too gentle hand, her eyes slowly became 
accustomed to the shadowy interior and in spite 
of herself they widened with amazement at the 
splendor she beheld. 

Sky Line was famed for its luxury, but most 
of this fame was hearsay. Nance knew instantly 
that it was pitifully inadequate. 

The broad windows were shaded with tasseled 
satin drapes. 

On the walls hung great paintings, deep and 
glowing with priceless art. Huge chairs, their 
rounded arms and rolling backs covered with 
velvet in pale shades of violet and orchid, sank 
their feet into the pile of moss green carpet, 
while here and there gleamed the cool white¬ 
ness of marble. This was the Inner Room. 
Beyond it opened that plainer one wherein Kate 
Cathrew did her every-day routine of work at 
the dark wood desk. 

A man was sitting on a broad couch, a cigar¬ 
ette in his fingers. He was a stranger to Nance, 
a stranger to the country, but she catalogued 
him swiftly as the man from New York of whom 
all Nameless had heard. He was slim and fair 


THE FIGHTING LINE AT LAST 263 


skinned, and the grey eyes, set rather close to¬ 
gether across the arch of the high-bridged 
nose, were the sharpest she had ever seen in a 
human. A fox she had once seen caught in a 
trap had had just such eyes. 

They were cold and appraising, without a 
spark of kindness. 

In one of the gorgeous chairs Kate Cathrew, 
dressed like a princess, sat bolt upright. 

At sight of Nance in her faded garments, 
straight and defiant in her controlled anger, her 
handsome face flushed beneath its artistry. 

“Ah!” she said, like a vixen, “get—out—of— 
that—door. Step over to the right a bit, you 
obscure the light.” 

The big girl did not move. 

She stood with her hat pulled down above 
her narrowed eyes, one hand on her hip. 

“If you’ve got anything to say to me,” she 
said coldly, “say it.” 

Kate Cathrew leaped to her feet, but the man 
put out a hand and touched her. 

As if a spring had been released she sank 
down, obeying that calm touch like an autom¬ 
aton. 

“Miss—ah—Allison,” said Arnold, “there is 
no need for dramatics. Neither will they avail 
you. We wanted to see you—to talk business 
with you. So we sent for you.” 


234 


NAMELESS RIVER 


‘‘So I see,” said Nance, “or rather you kid¬ 
napped me.” 

“Not so decided, please. We don’t like such 
words. They are—ah—crude, I might say.” 

“Not half so crude as you will find the 
methods of Nameless when this gets out, I 
guess,” said Nance. “Heaven knows I don’t 
amount to much, but I am likely to be a torch 
tor a fire that’s smouldering.” 

“We have extinguishers,” smiled Arnold. 
“Sky Line is a pretty fire department, if I do 
say it. The thing for you to do just now is— 
think. I’ll give you ten minutes.” 

I don’t need them,” said Nance. “I’ve 
thought for several years—about my father’s 
death my brother’s crippled body—my missing 
cattle my burned stacks—and many other 
things. I’m thinking now about Sheriff Sel- 
wood—and Bossick’s latest loss.” 

The man’s face hardened, yet a reluctant ad¬ 
miration drew a slight smile across it. 

1 ou take liberties, Miss Allison. Are you 
not—speaking in jest—a little—ah—afraid to 
speak so broadly!” 

Nance laughed bitterly, shifting on her feet 
in their worn boots. 

Afiaid ? No not of you—nor of your hired 
rustlers nor of Cattle Kate, there, with her 
paint and her tempers. I’m not afraid of any¬ 
thing but the wrath of God.” 



THE FIGHTING LINE AT LAST 235 


At that Arnold laughed outright. 

“You have something yet to learn, I see. 
Very well, since you do not care to think I will 
outline briefly your situation. You know, of 
course, that you are at present in the power of 
Sky Line Ranch. Reasoning backward you will 
come to the conclusion that there is a primal 
cause for this. Reasoning forward you will 
know that there is something which you can do 
for Sky Line, which it wants of you.” 

“Of course,” said Nance, “the whole country 
knows that—my flats on the river.” 

Arnold frowned. 

He did not like that answer. 

“And how, may I ask, does the country know 
this ? ’ ’ 

“It knows what has happened to me for sev¬ 
eral years now—and it judges the faces of your 
riders and their boss.” 

“If you please, we’ll leave Miss Cathrew out 
of this,” said Arnold crisply. 

“Yes?” asked Nance. “She’s been the back¬ 
bone of my troubles—under you, no doubt—and 
it isn’t likely I’ll leave her out. If you have 
anything to say to me I’d advise you to say it 
and get it over before Nameless comes hunting 
me,” 

“All Nameless may come hunting you, Miss 
Allison,” returned the man, “but it will not 
find you. Now put your wits in order. Sky Line 


23 6 


NAMELESS RIVER 


wants tliose flats on the river—and means to 
have them. VVe don’t do things by halves. What 
we undertake we finish. The time has come for 
decisive action. Yon have had many—ah— 
hints to vacate and have foolishly disregarded 
them. That is like a woman. A man would 
have gone long ago.” 

“Not any man,” interrupted Nance, “my 
Pappy didn’t.” 

“No?” said Arnold cruelly. “Is he here?” 

Quick tears misted the girl’s eyes, but the 
slowly throbbing anger burned them out. 

“Yes,” she said promptly, “and always will 
be—at the foot of our mountain—and in Bud 
and me. He has not yet been conquered.” 

Arnold dropped his dead cigarette into a tall 
brass receptacle, rose and stepped into the other 
room. He picked something from the desk there 
and came back. 

“We come to cases,” he said sharply. “I 
have here a properly made out deed, conveying 
to Miss Cathrew for the consideration of one 
dollar, the quarter-section of land herein de¬ 
scribed, lying along Nameless River, owned by 
the widow of John Allison, deceased, who took 
up said 1 land under the homestead act. This 
paper needs only the name of John Allison’s 
widow and two witnesses to make it a legal 
transfer of property. I am a notary. We can 
supply the witnesses—the highly important and 


THE FIGHTING LINE AT LAST 237 


necessary signature of John Allison’s widow you 
will obligingly furnish—at a price.” 

Nance’s eyes were studying his face all the 
while he was speaking. They were black and 
narrow, without a visible trace of their serene 
blue. Now the lower lid came up across the 
excited iris like the blade of a guillotine. 

“Let me understand you clearly,” she said, 
“you are asking me to forge my Mammy’s name 
to a deed to give away her home land—the 
land her husband patented and left her as her 
all? Is this what you are asking me?” 

“Exactly,” said Arnold, “but don’t forget 
the condition—at a price, I said, you know—at— 
a price.” 

Nance swept off her hat and struck it down 
against her knee. A laugh broke stiffly on her 
tallow-white face. 

“If I could swear,” she said, “I’d tell you 
where to go, and what I thought you were. You 
may consider yourself told as it is.” 

Arnold became coldly grave. 

“You refuse?” 

“What do you think I do? Put your wits 
in order!” 

The man turned and struck a bell which stood 
on a rosewood pedestal. Minnie Pine responded 
with suspicious promptness. 

“Send me Provine and Big Basford,” said 
Arnold briefly, and the girl departed. 


/ 

238 NAMELESS RIVER 

The man did not speak again, nor did Nance. 

Kate Cathrew sat still in her luxurious chair, 
here baleful black eyes traveling over the girl 
from head to foot with bitter interest. 

There came a shuffle and rattle of spur and 
the two Sky Line riders stood in the doorway of 
the room beyond, having come through the 
kitchen. 

“Miss Allison,” said Arnold, “I own the men 
of Sky Line, how or why is unimportant. What 
I tell them to do, they do. Am I not right, 
men?” 

Provine nodded easily. 

Big Basford spoke sullenly. 

“Yes, sir,” he said. 

“All right. Now, my girl, consider. There 
is on Sky Line a secret place-” 

“I’ve always thought so,” said Nance de¬ 
cidedly. 

“Be quiet. A place which the whole of 
Nameless is not likely to find, so mysteriously 
is its entrance hidden. One could live there for 
a lifetime undiscovered—or be taken out as if 
on wings-” 

“Like Bossick’s disappearing steers!” 

Arnold was exasperated, but held his temper. 

“Exactly,” he said, “if you will. Now con¬ 
sider again. You are a pretty fine specimen of 
a woman—quite likely to appeal to men— 





THE FIGHTING LINE AT LAST 239 


especially to men long denied feminine com¬ 
panionship—like Basford there.’’ 

Nance flung a glance at Basford. His sullen, 
lowering face set in its thicket of beard with the 
red-rimmed eyes above was enough to chill the 
heart of any woman. The great ape-like body 
added its own threat. Her own intrepid spirit 
felt a shock of horror, but that deep anger in 
her left little room for fear. 

She seemed to hear again Brand Fair’s ex¬ 
ultant words: “ You ’ll never leave the line, 
Nance, never in this world!” 

With a dogged courage heaving through the 
anger she looked back at Arnold. 

“Well?” she said. 

“Big Basford hasn’t had a woman of his 
own for many moons, I know. Now—will you 
sign this deed—or will you go with Basford to 
Rainbow’s Pot—his blushing bride?” 

Nance’s breast was heaving. Great breaths 
dilated her lungs and whistled out again. Her 
hands were shut tight, the fingers on her hat 
brim crimping the weathered felt. 

She thought of her Mammy—of Bud—of their 
long labor and the hardships they had borne. 
She thought of the cabin on Nameless—of its 
white scrubbed floors—its homely comforts—and 
all it meant to them and to her. It was her 
Pappy’s dream of empire—it had been hers. 


240 


NAMELESS RIVER 


She thought of Brand Fair and of Sonny. Of 
Brand and Bud who would sure start the fire 
to burning in all the lonely reaches at news of 
her disappearance—and— 

“I’m as good as most men,” she said, “to 
take care of myself. I wouldn’t sign that paper 
to save you and all your rustler nest from 
eternal damnation! And that’s my last word.” 

Arnold snapped his fingers. 

“Enough,” he said, “we’ll see what a night 
in Rainbow’s Pot will do for you. Basford— 
my compliments. I give you the beautiful lady. 
Properly disciplined she’ll make you a fine 
wife.” 

But Big Basford shook his unkempt head. 

“She’s a yellow woman,” he said contemptu¬ 
ously, “I don’t want her,” and his hungry eyes 
went helplessly toward the dark splendor of 
Kate Cathrew in her velvet chair. 

Provine surged forward, a sudden excitement 
in his snaky orbs. 

“I do,” he cried, “try me!” 

Arnold laughed. 

“Good! I like an eager lover. You may 
guard Miss Allison inside, and Basford shall 
take the place I had intended for you outside the 
Flange. We’ll talk business some more tomor¬ 
row. We bid you adieu, Miss Allison. I hope 
by morning you will be more amenable to rea¬ 
son.” 



THE FIGHTING LINE AT LAST 241 


Without a backward glance Nance turned and 
strode away between her guards. Eesistance 
was useless, she well knew. 

“ ‘In my distress I cried unto the Lord and 
He heard me , 5 ” she thought courageously. “ ‘I 
will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from 
whence cometh my help/ ” 

“One moment,” called Arnold, still laughing, 
“remember that the Secret Way tells no tales— 
and that Provine has long wanted to go back to 
Texas.” 

The girl turned and glanced back. 

“The hand of God,” she said calmly, “is ever 
before my face. Neither you nor yours can do 
me harm for the Lord shall preserve me from 
all evil, He shall preserve my soul. And He did 
not make me strong for nothing,” she added 
“I shall leave it all to Him.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


RIDERS OF PORTENT 

Minnie Pine could get from one place to an¬ 
other more quickly and with less noise than any 
one at Sky Line. 

When Rod Stone came in at dusk she came 
running to him in the shadows to whisper in 
his ear. 

“The Sun Woman from the flats on Name¬ 
less,’’ she said, “has thrown their words back 
in the faces of the Master and the Boss—and 
they have given her to Sud to guard—in Rain¬ 
bow’s Pot with Big Basford at the Flange. It’s 
devil’s work.” 

There was little or no expression on the 
half-breed’s placid face, but there was plenty of 
it in her low voice. 

Good God!” said the boy, “are you sure, 
Minnie?”’ 

I heard- and I saw,” she answered, “and 
my heart is heavy for the pretty one with the 
eagle s eies. She does not fear—but she does 
not know.” 

Rod Stone put out an arm and hugged the 
girl gently. 

“You’re a real woman, kid, if your skin is 

242 


RIDERS OF PORTENT 


9A 3 


brown,’’ he said admiringly, “and after all, it’s 
heart that counts. Now tell me about this.” 

They stood close together in the shadows of 
the fir beside the corral and the girl talked 
swiftly, recounting with almost flawless accuracy 
what had taken place in the Inner Room. 

The boy was silent but his lips were tightly 
compressed and his blue eyes shone with wrath. 

“I came,” said Minnie frankly, “to you, be¬ 
cause you are the only man at Sky Line. The 
rest are skunks. Josef a says you have the heart 
of a Porno chief.” 

Stone stood for a long time considering. 

Then he drew a deep breath and flung up his 
head. 

The motion was full of portent, as if some¬ 
thing in him which had long bowed down sprang 
aloft with vigor, like a young tree, bent to earth, 
released. 

“You’re right,” he said, “it’s devil’s work 
and something must be done. I am the one to 
do it, too.” 

He was silent for another space. Then he 
turned to the girl. 

“Kid,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about 
you lately—about making a get-a-way down the 
Pipe some night and striking across the desert 
for Marston—we could find a parson there and 
drop over the Line into Mexico. Arnold hasn’t 
much on me—perhaps less than on anyone at 


244 


NAMELESS RIVER 


Sky Line—and we could make a new start-” 

There was the soft sound of an indrawn 
breath and Minnie Pine’s hand went to her 
shapely throat. 

Stone went on. 

“If I do this—if I hit down for Cordova to¬ 
night you know, of course, that it is very likely 
to be the end of me one way or another, in the 
general stir-up that will follow. I want you to 
know any way before I start—that I’d like that 
new beginning—with you.” 

For a long moment there was no sound save 
the myriad voices of the connifers talking mys¬ 
teriously with the winds of night. 

Then the Porno girl put her hands on the 
white man’s shoulders. 

“A chief,” she said, “does what must be 
done—without fear—and a chief’s woman fol¬ 
lows him—even to death. Saddle two horses.” 

******** 

At Sheriff Price Selwood’s ranch an anxious 
circle watched the still form on the bed. The 
doctor from Bement had not left his station for 
seven hours. Outside cowboys, all armed, 
walked here and there, and on the deep veranda 
sat the prospector, Smith, smoking innumerable 
cigarettes and waiting on destiny. 

Though he was filled with inner excitement 
his dark face gave no sign. He sat tilted back 




RIDERS OF PORTENT 245 

against the wall, his booted feet on the round 
of his chair, his hat pulled low over his eyes, 
and his keen vision sweeping the stretch of 
meadow that lay before the ranch house. 

4 4 It may be an hour—it may be ten—but some¬ 
thing is going to happen soon,” the doctor had 
said at dusk, “he will either rally or sink. If 
he speaks he will be rational, I think.” 

And on that chance the stranger waited to 
ask one question, namely: “What is the secret 
of Sky Line? Where is the other end of the 
passage?” 

For all the hours that Price Selwood had lain 
unconscious fourteen men under Bossick had 
camped in a glade under the flaring skirts of 
Mystery’s western end, ready to answer Fair’s 
summons. 

Diamond waited in Selwood’s stable, saddled 
and fit, and everything waited on the intrepid 
sheriff himself who had done such valiant work 
“to get the goods” on Sky Line. 

A late round moon was rising above the dis¬ 
tant rim-rock of Rainbow Cliff, a great golden 
disc that promised full light, and all the little 
winds, born in the canons of the Deep Heart 
hills, frolicked like elves among the trees. 

Fair’s thoughts were of the girl on Nameless 
—of her long blue eyes with their steady light, 
of her smiling lips and the golden crown of her 
braided hair. 


246 


NAMELESS RIVER 


He drifted away, as lovers have done since 
time was, and it was the low-toned voice of the 
doctor which recalled him. 

“Mr. Smith,” it said without a change of in¬ 
flection, “come in carefully.” 

He rose and, tossing away his cigarette, 
stepped softly across the sill. 

In the faint light of the oil lamp on a stand 
Sheriff Selwood looked up into the face of his 
wife, bending above him. 

“Sally,” he said weakly. 

Then he turned his head and looked slowly 
around at the others. 

“Hello, Doc,” he whispered, then—“they 

didn’t get me—after all! Smith—Smith-” 

a sudden light leaped into the dazed -eyes, “I 
saw—them drive Bossick’s—Bossick’s steers 
into the face of—Rainbow Cliff a mile west— 
of Sky Line-” 

“That’s plenty,” said Fair quickly, “you 
mustn’t talk, Selwood—mind the doctor—I’m 
leaving now.” 

And with a gentle touch on the sick man’s 
shoulder he was gone. 

He ran to the stable and got Diamond. 

I ive oi Selwood’s riders were throwing 
saddles on horses. 

In less time than seemed possible the six men 
were riding for the rendezvous on Nameless. 

All along the flowing river there was the 




RIDERS OF PORTENT 


247 


seeming of portent, a strange sense of impend¬ 
ing tragedy, for many riders were abroad in 
the quiet night. 

One of these was Bud Allison, his young face 
set and awful, his Pappy’s old rifle grasped in 
a steady hand, pushing Big Dan to an unac¬ 
customed limit of speed toward Sheriff Sel- 
wood’s ranch. 

The boy was praying that he might find 
Brand there—and the old gun was destined for 
action. 

But within the narrow margin of a mile Fair 
was passing toward the north as he went south 
—and thus Bud missed him with the news of 
Nance’s disappearance. Had they met, the hap- 
pennings of that night might have had a dif¬ 
ferent ending, for Fair would have stormed the 
citadel of Sky Line like a fury, forgetting all 
things in his fear for the woman he loved—the 
ends of justice which he sought to serve, Bos- 
sick’s steers and everything else. 

And in the shadow of Rainbow Cliff Rod 
Stone and Minnie Pine waited patiently for the 
ranch to settle down that they might slip away. 

It was a dark night, soft and soundless, with 
all things waiting in a mysterious hush. 

At the camp on the skirts of Mystery, Fair 
found Bossick ready. 

“Selwood’s conscious,’’ he told him quickly, 
“and his first thought was of his race for life. 



248 


NAMELESS RIVER 


He said 4 they didn’t get me after all,’ and ‘I 
saw them driving Bossick’s steers into the face 
of Rainbow Cliff a mile from Sky Line.’ That’s 
the secret he discovered and for which they 
tried to kill him. 

“There’s some sort of opening in the rock 
face which connects with the subterranean pas¬ 
sage that leads to Blue Stone Canon, the desert 
range beyond, and finally to Marston on the 
railroad. That, gentlemen, is the secret of your 
disappearing cattle. Selwood said they always 
vanished at the same time Kate Cathrew drove 
her stock down to Cordova and out to the sta¬ 
tion—do you seel 

“The drive, coming down to the river, oblit¬ 
erated all tracks of those going up. Now that 
we know I think we’ve got the Sky Line rustlers 
dead to rights. There are twenty-one of us. 

“We’ll divide you; you, Bossick, going with 
your party up to Rainbow Cliff, and I striking 
up through the mysterious passage. This trip 
will take a long hard grill, for it is far up Blue 
Stone to the south, and none of us know the 
length of the underground way. 

“However, it must lead to some pocket not 
far from the cliff itself and on the inside. A 
gun-shot will locate us when we are ready for 
each other. Lord knows what we’ll find, or 
what the outcome will be. Let’s go.” 

And so it was that some time later Brand 



RIDERS OF PORTENT 24 9 

Fair with his posse passed close along* the upper 
edge of Nance Allison’s ruined field and thought 
tenderly of the blue-eyed girl with her dogged 
courage and her simple faith, little dreaming 
that she was not safe in her bed in the cabin. 

The hours of the night wore on. 

Far down in the open reaches poor Dan was 
loping gallantly with open mouth and laboring 
lungs while the boy on his back drove him re¬ 
lentlessly on in a desperate attempt to overtake 
Fair, whom the sentries at Selwood’s ranch had 
described as on the way to Mystery Ridge. 

Crossing diagonally down, Rod Stone, safe 
away from Sky Line at last, made for Cordova 
with Minnie Pine behind him. 

Bossick, having the shortest journey of all, 
sat in a clump of pines with his men around 
him, and waited in strained silence for a dis¬ 
tant shot. 

It was well after midnight when two things 
took place at almost the same moment—Brand 
Fair rode in behind the clump of willows that 
were always blowing out from the canon’s wall 
with his men in single file behind him—and Rod 
Stone got off his horse at Cordova. lie handed 
his rein to the Porno girl and went swiftly up 
the steps, opening the door upon the lighted 


250 


NAMELESS RIVER 


room where a group of men were playing. They 
were mostly from the Upper Country, though 
one or two were Cordovans. Among them were 
the bearded man who had sat on McKane’s 
porch that day in spring and watched Cattle 
Kate come riding in on Bluefire, and the young 
cowboy with whom he had spoken concerning 
them. 

Stone, a Sky Line man, received cold glances 
from the faces raised at his entrance. All Name¬ 
less knew and disapproved of Sky Line. But 
the boy was made of courageous stuff and he 
tackled the issue promptly. 

“Men,” he said sharply, “I’m from Sky 
Line, as you all know, and you may class me now 
as a traitor to my outfit. Perhaps I am. 
That’s neither here nor there. I don’t give a 
damn whether I am or not. I’d have stood true 
in all cases but one. That one has happened. 
There’s a good girl—a Bible girl, like I used to 
know back in the middle west—shut up in a 
secret spot with Sud Provine— and I’ve got to 
have help to save her and that quick. She’s a 
fighter, I think, and is strong—but—you all 
know Provine. I don’t know what I’m stirring 
up and I don’t care. Will you come?” 

Every chair at the dirty canvas-covered table 
but one shot back and outward as the players 
rose. 


RIDERS OF PORTENT 251 

Where’s this here spot—an’ who’s th’ 
girl?” said the cowboy. "Lead ns to ’em.” 

In Rainbow Cliff—and the Allison girl fro m 
the homestead on the River.” 

"Th’ hell yon say! Ain’t that poor kid had 
enongh tronble?” 

But McKane the trader spoke from where he 
sat, frowning. 

"Ain’t you all taking a lot for granted?” he 
asked, "and mussing in Kate Cathrew’s busi¬ 
ness?” 

The bearded man turned on him. 

"Damn Kate Cathrew’s business! She can’t 
give a decent girl to that slimy rep-tile Provine 
and get by with it in this man’s country—not 
by a damn sight! Get your horses, boys!” 

As the players surged out, McKane, obeying 
some apprehensive instinct which pulled at his 
heart like a cold hand, rose and followed. 

"Wait till I get mine!’ he shouted as he ran. 


CHAPTER XX 

CONCLUSION 

When Nance Allison mounted Buckskin at 
Kate Cathrew’s door a terrible weight hung at 
her heart, yet a current of strength seemed 
flowing in her veins. 

“ ‘The Lord is the strength of my life/ ” she 
thought valiantly, “ ‘of whom shall I be 
afraid V 99 

The courage of the familiar words had been 
with her through many bitter trials—it did not 
fail her now. 

But she was not conscious that she no longer 
called upon her Maker for help to bear, to be 
patient under persecution, or that she ran a 
hand along the muscle of her right arm testing 
its quality. 

Rather there was intensified in her that slow 
itch of wrath which had swept away humility. 

So she rode in silence with Provine’s las¬ 
civious eyes upon her from behind, and Big 
Basford glowering in self-centered inattention 
ahead. 

The way led close along the foot of Rainbow 
Cliff among the weathered debris which sifted 

252 


CONCLUSION 


253 


always down the rock face, and presently she 
was amazed to see the wall itself seem to slice 
in between Basford and herself, and in another 
second she was riding into a very narrow defile 
in the living stone with Provine close upon her 
horse’s heels. There was just room for horse 
and rider in the echoing aisle and none to spare. 
It was dimly lighted by what seemed a crack 
in the earth’s surface high up among the clouds. 
The girl looked up in wonder. 

This, she knew, was the secret of Rainbow 
Cliff and Mystery Ridge. Despite her danger 
she noted the passage with keen interest. The 
way was short for in a few minutes the rock- 
walled cut turned sharply to the right and ended 
abruptly. 

Before her startled vision lay spread out a 
little paradise, round as a cup, green with tender 
grass, dotted with oak and poplar trees beside 
its countless springs—and grazing contentedly 
on its peculiarly rank forage was a band of 
cattle, each one of which bore on its left the 
“B. K.” of Bossick’s brand! 

But stranger than all this was the straight 
high wall of tinted stone which completely en¬ 
circled the spot, with no opening other than the 
one through which she and her guard had en¬ 
tered. 

This, then, was Rainbow’s Pot of which 
Arnold had spoken. 


254 


NAMELESS RIVER 


In utter astonishment she drew Buckskin up 
and looked at the “secret spot” of Sky Line 
Ranch. 

It was fair to the eye, the ear and the nostril, 
for the sunlight fell warm upon its farther side, 
the songs of a myriad birds made music in the 
trees and the still air was drenched with the 
scent of some nameless flower. 

It was not until she had taken it all in with 
a slowly comprehensive glance that she became 
conscious of something strange in its formation, 
namely—the tendency of the green-clad floor to 
slope from all sides smoothly down to the center 
where there seemed to be a cave with an over¬ 
hanging edge. 

This slanting hole was dark in the midst of 
the green with the late light upon it, like the 
sinister entrance to some underground cavern. 

“Well,” said Provine amusedly, “how do 
you like it?” 

The girl did not reply, but sat still with her 
hands crossed on her saddle horn. 

The snaky eyes under the black brows lost 
their drowsy pleasantry. 

“I wouldn’t advise you, purty,” he said, “to 
come the high-and-mighty with me. A little 
kindness, now, would go a long way towards 
an understandin’. Get off that horse.” 

Without a word Nance obeyed. 

A little cold touch was at her inmost heart, 


CONCLUSION 


255 


but that tight, tense feeling of strength was still 
with her. She measured Provine’s shoulders 
with her eyes as he unsaddled the animals and 
turned them out to graze. She looked at his 
long arms, his lean and sinewy back. 

“I’ve handled my plow all spring,” she said 
to herself sagely, “I pitched hay all day and 
was not too tired at night. I can lift a grain 
sack easy. I’ll sell out hard if I have, to— 
for Mammy and Brand and Bud and Sonny.” 

And when Provine turned and come toward 
her, smiling, he was met by blue eyes that were 
hard as shining stone, a mouth like a line of 
battle and hands clutched hard on folded arms. 

44 Oh, ho,” he said, “we’re goin’ to butt our 
head agin a wall, ain’t we? Cut it, kid, an 7 kiss 
me—you might as well now as later. An’ be¬ 
sides, I don’t like a mouth all mashed up from 
discipline.” 

“The hand of God,” said the big girl stiffly, 
“is before my face. His host is round about me. 
I’d advise you to let me alone.” 

The man threw back his head and laughed. 

“I don’t see no host,” he said, “an’ I ain’t 
superstitious,” and with a leap he swung one 
long arm around her neck. 

“Help me, Lord!” said Nance aloud, and bow¬ 
ing her young body she pulled her forehead 
down his breast and slipped free. 

Next moment she had struck him in the mouth 




256 


NAMELESS RIVER 


with all her might and followed through like 
any man. 

Provine roared and swore and came for her 
again, head down and small eyes blazing. 

“Now,” he said, “I’ll have to hand you dis¬ 
cipline, you damned hell-cat!” 

****** ** 

So the night that was so full of portent 
dropped down upon the country of the Deep 
Heart hills and Destiny rode the winds. 

Sky Line Ranch was stirring early, even be¬ 
fore the first grey light had touched the east. 

There was much afoot. Bossick’s steers were 
going down the Pipe that day—and perhaps 
Sud Pro vine and Nance Allison would go with 
them, bound for the Big Bend country in Texas 
whence the man had hailed. 

I think she’ll sign this morning,” said 
Arnold easily as he sat down to Josef a’s steam¬ 
ing breakfast by lamplight, ‘ 4 and keep her mouth 
shut, too.” 

In tne shielding clump of pines Bossick waited 
for Fair’s signal somewhere inside the cliff. 

^ Not so far down the great slope of Mystery 
Rod Stone was climbing up with the Cordova 

men behind him and Minnie Pine like his shadow 
at his side. 

And deep in the heart of the earth Brand 
Fair was slowly forging upward toward that 


CONCLUSION 


257 


coup of justice for which he had labored so long 
and patiently. 

There was excitement in him and exultation 
and a certain grim joy, for he knew the man he 
wanted was at Sky Line Ranch and that he was 
about to lay upon him and Kate Cathrew the 
stern hand of the law. 

Not least of the actors in the coming play, 
set to function on the stage of Rainbow’s Pot, 
was Bud Allison urging his exhausted horse 
slowly up toward Sky Line. 

False dawn had come and passed. The short 
darkness following was shot now with pale light 
above the distant rim. 

There was a cold breeze blowing when Arnold 
and Kate Cathrew rode along the rock face to 
the Flange. They spoke in low tones to Big 
Basford standing like an image and slipped 
into the wall. They rode in silence down the 
defile, dark as Erebus and full of wind, and 
came out into the amphitheatre where the pale 
light was breaking. 

The trees stood like tall gnomes, humped and 
darkly draped. 

Here and there on the sloping floor the cattle 
lay in quiet groups, while a little way apart 
Buckskin and Silvertip browsed industriously. 

At first they saw no sign of anything human 
in all the shadowy place. Arnold’s keen eyes 


258 


NAMELESS RIVER 


swept the Pot from side to side, while Cattle 
Kate’s went slowly round the wall. 

“That’s funny,” said the man, “Provine-” 

“Look,” said Kate, “over toward the left— 
against the cliff.” 

The light in the east struck first at the west¬ 
ern face of the precipice, so that an object 
standing back against the perpendicular surface 
got its full benefit, 

Arnold bent forward in his saddle and looked 
long at this object. 

It was very still, a point of prominence in 
the shadows, and its very immobility gave it a 
certain grimness. 

Then he touched his horse and rode forward. 

“Good Lord!” he said as he pulled rein a 
distance from it, “Good Lord!” 

For the object w T as Nance Allison—or what 
had been Nance Allison some few hours back. 

Now it was a tragic wreck of a woman w T hose 
garments hung in fantastic shreds upon her 
body, whose white skin shone through in many 
places and whose great eyes gleamed from her 
ghastly face with awful light. One long gold 
braid of hair hung from her head in a dangling 
loop. The other was loose to its roots and swept 
in a ragged flag to her hip. Long wisps of it 
shone here and there upon the trampled grass 
around. 

And over her from head to foot was blood— 



CONCLUSION 


259 


blood in clots and streaks and splotches, while 
from a small gash on her temple a red stream 
slowly dripped. 

The man was awed for once in his relentless 
life. 

“Heaven!’ he said, “what have you done? 
Where’s Provine?” 

“Dead, I hope,” said Nance Allison dully. 

Arnold struck his horse and dashed away, 
riding here and there as if he must know the 
ghastly finish quickly. 

For a while it seemed that the man was gone 
entirely. 

Then suddenly his horse shied from some¬ 
thing moving in the deep grass by a spring and 
Arnold dismounted. 

He had found Provine—Sud Provine rolling 
if! agony, his face in the mud. With no gentle 
hand he grasped his shoulder and pulled him 
up. 

“What’s all this?” he rasped. “What’s the 
matter with you?” 

For answer Provine took his hands from the 
left side of his face and looked up at his 
master. 

Arnold dropped him back with an oath, which 
Provine echoed. 

“Gone!” he cried hoarsely, “gouged—slick 
an’ clean! An’ she tried to get ’em both—damn 
her hussy’s soul!” 



260 


NAMELESS RIVER 


Arnold rode slowly back to where that gro¬ 
tesque caricature of a woman still stood by the 
wall. She seemed immovable as the rock itself, 
part and parcel of the waiting world and the 
grey shadows. 

“You young hellion!” he gritted through his 
teeth, “you have blinded my best man! n 

“Have so,” said Nance, still in that dull 
voice, “yes—I have so.” She nodded her 
dishevelled head. 

“Oh. what’s the use to fool with her!” cried 
Kate Cathrew furiously, “I’m done!” 

With a flare of her unbridled temper she 
snatched her gun from its saddle-loops and flung 
it up. 

As her finger curled on the trigger Arnold 
plunged his horse against Bluefire. 

“No!” he cried as the report rang out clear 
and sharp in the thin air of dawn. The bullet 
struck with a vicious “phwit” ten feet above 
its mark, and a little rain of rock dust fell on 
Nance’s hair. 

From all the sides of Rainbow’s Pot that shot 
came back in echoes, a roaring fusillade—and 
Bossick, waiting in his clump of pines, straight¬ 
ened in his saddle. He picked up his hanging 
rein and spoke in a low voice. 

“Ready, men?” he asked, “then let’s go.” 

Cattle Kate had fired her own signal of fate 
and her enemies heard it. 


CONCLUSION 


261 


Brand Fair heard it in the strange dark 
passage far down in the heart of Mystery Ridge. 
Rod Stone, climbing the stiff slopes, heard it, 
and so did the boy on the staggering horse a 
little farther over toward Sky Line. He altered 
his course a bit toward the west. 

“What do you mean?” said Arnold sharply, 
“would you kill her before she signs the paper? 
Or after—and have the finger of the law point 
at the new owner of the flats? Use your wits.” 

“I have,” said Kate sullenly, “and have got¬ 
ten nowhere. And she has defied me.” 

“She has defied us all,” replied Arnold with 
reluctant admiration, “she has been charmed, 
it seems.” 

“Kill her—and the old woman will take the 
boy and go,” said Kate, “she’s the stubborn 
element. I warn you now—she must never go 
out of this place alive. She knows us now.” 

“Unless she goes down the Pipe with this 
morning’s drive—the boys should soon be here 
to start.” 

“She will come back.” 

“Not if I send Basford to take her over the 
Line.” 

“Enough!” said Kate, “I’m uneasy about the 
whole thing—the brushed-out tracks at the 

mouth of the Pipe-” 

“A trifle. And the boys will soon be here. 

Hark—they’re coming now.” 



262 NAMELESS RIVER 

There was a sound in the rock face, a shout 
and the rumble of horses’ feet hurrping. 

The man and the woman looked that way—to 
behold Big Basford come boiling from the nar¬ 
row opening with a string of men behind him. 
The grey light had given place to the rose of 
sunrise, and the riders who came so swiftly out 
of the wall were plainly visible. 

‘ 4 Hell’s tire!” whispered Cattle Kate Cathrew* 

Like a Nemesis, Bossick and the ranchers 
behind him pushed Big Basford down the slop¬ 
ing floor of Rainbow’s Pot. 

“A plant!” screamed the latter, “we’re 
caught! We ’re caught! ’ ’ 

A hundred feet away Bossick stopped. 

His angry eyes flashed over Arnold and the 
woman beside him, then scanned the green basin 
where the peaceful cattle lay. 

“It would seem, Miss Cathrew,” he said, 
“that you are—caught. Caught with the goods 
at last. Yonder are my missing steers if I can 
read my own brand. It looks like the B Bar K 
to me.” 

Kate Cathrew wet her lips and her hand 
moved restlessly on the rifle’s butt. She did 
not speak, but her black eyes burned like coals 
in her chalk-white face. 

Bossick threw back his coat, A star shone 
faintly in the light. 

‘You can thank Sheriff Selwood’s tireless 


CONCLUSION 


263 


work for this,” he said, “and so can we. The 
whole country’s deputized. Your work is 
known. You may as well give up without a 
fuss for we-” 

He stopped, for an odd sound had become 
apparent—a deep, echoing sound, as of many 
waters beating on a hollow shore. 

It seemed to come from the center of the 
amphitheatre where the cave mouth yawned. 

For a second the whole group was silent. 

Then Kate Cathrew flung round to stare with 
wide orbs at the mouth of the Pipe. Her world 
was falling about her and she was appalled. 

The roar of waters became the rumble of 
hoofs and up from the bowels of the earth came 
Brand Fair and his men. 

He blinked in the new light and then his 
dark eyes went unerringly to the face of the 
woman—this woman whom he had sought for 
two full years. 

“Good morning, Katherine Fair,” he said. 

Far over by the rock face Nance Allison 
leaned forward in her bloody rags and raised 
a hand slowly to her throat. 

The dullness in her clouded brain struggled 
with her natural keenness for mastery and lost. 

Up from the abysmal depths of physical ex¬ 
haustion which encompassed her came that 
spirit which had not yet been conquered. 

“You!” screamed Cattle Kate, “You! You! 



264 


NAMELESS RIVER 


It was iyou who did the trick—not that fool Sel- 
wood! I might have guessed!” 

Fair sat still and looked at her and at the 
man beside her whose face was a study. 

“Sure you might have guessed,” he said. 
“When you and your paramour there robbed 
the Consolidated and wound the coils of guilt 
around Jack Fair—you might have guessed that 
his brother would follow you to the ends of the 
earth to get you. And he’s got you —got you 
dead to rights.” 

He, too, showed a deputy’s star. 

“Jack Fair died in prison—of shame and of 
a broken heart. For three years I worked in 
New York to get the goods on you, Arnold, 
and never could—definitely. Then I hired a 
better man who could—and did. I have a 
precious package in a safe place with enough 
proof in it to have sent you over long ago— 
but I wanted you both—together—a grand 
finale. It has been a long trail—long—for me— 
and for Sonny, the child whom you abandoned, 
Kate, five years ago.” 

The woman gasped and raised a clinched fist 
to let it fall in impotent rage. Fair went on. 

“I’ve lived for months in Blue Stone Canon. 
It was I who found where the willows blow out 
from the wall. It was Sheriff Selwood who took 
his life in his hand to help your men drive Bos- 
sick’s steers into Rainbow Cliff. It was all of 



CONCLUSION 


265 


us together, as you see us here, who put two 
and two together and determined to get you— 
and to get you good—you and all your outfit of 
rustlers—all of whom owe something to Law¬ 
rence Arnold yonder. We’ve picketed the mouth 
of your passage into Blue Stone and would 
have caught you there—or rather at Marston, 
where I have had arrangements made for some 
time. We’ve been holding off for Selwood’s 
word—he’s worked too faithfully all these years 
to lose the credit now.” 

Not once had Fair taken his eyes from Kate 
Cathrew’s face, else he might have seen the 
tragic figure by the wall at the right, the gro¬ 
tesque woman whose blood-stained features 
worked with hysterical laughter. 

“Brother!” whispered Nance Allison to her¬ 
self, “it was his brother—not—not—himself! 
Oh. Lord, I—thank Thee!” 

Neither did he see the newcomers streaming 
through the cut into the basin—the men from 
Cordova under Bod Stone. 

Minnie Pine’s black eyes went flashing round 
the Pot to light instantly upon the figure of the 
girl. 

“Poor Eagle Eyes!” she said to Stone, “she 
has walked in hell!” 

There was one other actor in the small drama 
whom no one noticed—Bud Allison, on foot now, 
since Big Dan stood at the base of the last rise, 


266 


NAMELESS RIVER 


completely done—Bud Allison dragging his lame 
foot wearily, his Pappy’s old gun on his 
shoulder. 

The boy stood between the last riders and the 
wall, looking at them all with puzzled eyes. 
Brand Fair continued: 

“While we are about this we’ll finish it com¬ 
pletely. I want the men of Nameless and the 
Upper Country to know just what sort of crim¬ 
inals they have been dealing with—to know that 
Lawrence Arnold there is a clever New York 
lawyer who defends guilty men and frees them— 
by buying juries. That he is getting rich by 
selling through agents and aids the cattle which 
you, Kate, steal here, drive into the river, up 
to the cliff, down this wonderful underground 
passage into Blue Stone Canon and out across 
the desert to Marston for the shipping. It has 
been an amazing system in a more amazing 
setting. The mystery of the steers that left no 
tracks is solved by the fact that every time you 
stole a big herd you drove them up the night 
before you drove your own brand down — 
therefore, they left no trace. Also, I want to 
say here and now before these witnesses, that 
all the money you brought with you into the 
Beep Heart hills belonged to poor Jack Fair, the 
father of your child—the man you betrayed into 
prison through the devilish legal trap laid by 



CONCLUSION 


267 


Lawrence Arnold—and that is why I’ve fol¬ 
lowed you. Sonny Fair has a right to his 
father’s property—and I intend to see that he 
gets it. Have you anything to say?” 

Lawrence Arnold, trapped and conscious of 
the fact, wet his thin lips and glanced desper¬ 
ately around. He saw only stern faces, cold 
and angry eyes. 

But Cattle Kate Cathrew was made of dif¬ 
ferent stuff. She flung up her clenched fists 
and shook them at the clear skies where the rose 
of dawn was spreading. 

“You -!” she swore, “I always 

hated your narrow eyes and that mouth of 
yours! So you are the prospector, Smith, who 
has been so inquisitive at Cordova! It was you 
who shot Big Basford in the hand!” 

Fair nodded. 

“To see fair play,” he said. 

“And it is you whoVe done all this! Oh, 
damn your soul to hell!” 

She dropped her hands, caught the rein hang¬ 
ing on Bluefire’s neck, struck her heels to his 
flanks and quick as thought whirled him away 
toward the cut. The group between her and 
the entrance fell floundering apart before the 
stallion’s charge. 

With a dozen leaps she almost reached the 
wall. 



268 


NAMELESS RIVER 


44 You can’t get away with this, Brand Fair!” 
she screamed, 44 I’m a match for you!” and 
jerked at her rifle in its loops. 

In her rage she was inept, so that the weapon 
caught, hindering her purpose for a moment. 

But that purpose was clear to several in the 
intense group of watchers—to Rod Stone—to 
Fair himself—and to one other. 

Nance Allison, standing in her trampled spot, 
knew that the moment she had dreaded for so 
long was come. Knew that danger threatened 
at last some one whom she loved—the stark 
danger of death—and as if something broke 
within her, the 44 stirrings” crystalized. With¬ 
out taking her eyes from the frantic woman on 
the big blue horse, she began to feel with her 
foot for something in the grass—something long 
and dark and cold, but which seemed to her 
now more precious and to be desired than any¬ 
thing upon the earth—namely, Sud Provine’s 
rifle. 

It seemed, all suddenly, as if the feel of a 
gun in her hands had been with her from birth, 
as if she had leaped the years between and was 
a daughter of the feudal mountaineers who had 
marked her Pappy’s line. 

Gone was all the stern restraint, the earnest 
supplication to be kept from spilling blood. The 
hatred which had smouldered in her leaped to 
its fulfillment. 


CONCLUSION 


269 


For herself and hers she had borne all things 
—lost hope and poverty, and the deadening 
weariness of gigantic labors. 

She had believed in the hand of God that 
had been her shield and buckler, had been pa¬ 
tient in adversity, meek in her dogged courage. 

Now, as Kate Cathrew clawed for a weapon 
to kill Brand Fair sitting on his horse at the 
cave’s mouth, she was become a killer herself, 
joying in the fact. 

Her foot touched the rifle. 

She bent and took it up. 

As Cattle Kate straightened in her saddle, 
Nance dropped stiffly to her knee and raised 
the gun. 

Her blue eyes caught the sights and drew 
down steadily upon the woman’s heart. 

Just so had those forgotten Allisons drawn 
down upon their enemies in the Kentucky hills. 

Her finger touched the trigger. 

And here the hand of destiny reached down— 
or was it the hand of God?—and ordered the 
puppets playing out their little tragedy in the 
heart of Kainbow Cliff. 

As Kate Cathrew flung up her gun the furious 
rage that fired her stiffened body in the saddle, 
shot her bolt upright, standing in her stirrups. 

Perhaps some unaccustomed pressure of her 
posture angered him—perhaps the excitement 
of the moment loosed something wild in his 


no 


NAMELESS RIVER 


hybrid heart—perhaps it was something else. 

The bearded man from the Upper Country 
said afterwards it was. 

At any rate, with the woman’s spectacular 
and dramatic action, Bluefire, the stallion, who 
hated her but obeyed her, gave one scream and 
rose with her. 

It was a magnificent leap, high spread- 
eagling, with the flowing silver cloud of his mane 
tossing in the rosy light. 

From the peak of its arc the woman, good 
rider though she was, but taken by surprise, fell 
loose from her stirrups, cascading in a flare of 
booted feet straight down his hips and tail. 

At the same moment two shots rang out—her 
own and Nance’s both gone wild with Bluefire’s 
interference. 

Still on his hind feet, the stallion whirled, 
turning once more toward the cut in the wall, 
and came down—his shod forefeet full upon her 
breast. He leaped over her body and was gone, 
his empty saddle shining with its vanity of 
silver. 

A silence of death fell for a moment in the 
peaceful Pot. 

Then two men moved. 

McKane, the trader who leaped from his horse 
and knelt by Kate Cathrew, and Big Basford 
who flung 1 up his arms and shook his clawing 
fingers toward the western wall. 


CONCLUSION 


271 


“You killed her!” he shrieked, “You yellow 
devil—you’ve killed Kate Cathrew! And I’ll 
kill you!” 

He kicked his horse viciously and shot for¬ 
ward. 

Bud Allison, the boy whom none had noticed, 
raised his Pappy’s gun and fired. 

Big Basford toppled to the left and slid out 
of his saddle with an audible grunt. He rolled 
over, shook his good fist toward the serene skies, 
and was still. 

Slowly the group drew in to look at Cattle 
Kate lying so quietly after the storm. 

McKane was holding her hand between his 
own and murmuring foolish, endearing words. 
Lawrence Arnold pushed him aside with an 
oath. 

But Brand Fair turned his eyes for the firs^ 
time toward that farther wall. For a moment 
he did not recognize the creature which knelt 
there, the smoking rifle across its knee, its face 
covered with both hands. 

Then something familiar in the drooping 
shoulders, the ragged veil of shining hair, struck 
home to him. 

Without a word he went forward and dis¬ 
mounted. 

Incredulously he stooped and took the hands 
away. 


NAMELESS RIVER 


Wide eyed he looked at her. 

“Nance!” he cried in horror, “Nance— 
Nance Nance! God Almighty! What’s this?” 

I am forsaken of my God,” said the girl 

piteously, I had to kill her—or she’d have 
killed you ! ’ ’ 

“lou didn’t,” said Fair sharply, “the stal¬ 
lion killed her. Your shot went wild.” 

She looked at him dully, uncomprehending, 
and Fail lepeated his words. As she realized 
their import her lips began to quiver, she rolled 

down upon the trampled grass with her face to 
the sod, and wept. 

Biand hair, knowing that this matter was 
between her soul and its Maker, wisely did not 
attempt to comfort her. 

He sat with his hand on her heaving shoulder 
and watched the tragic scene. 

Bossick and his men surrounded Arnold. Big 
Basford was dead. And here was Nance Alli¬ 
son in Rainbow’s Pot at dawn, ghastly with 
blood and weariness. 

A thousand questions burned in his brain, 
but he waited. 

From the right Rod Stone was coming for¬ 
ward, followed by the half-breed girl and the 
rest of the men from Cordova. 

Bossick took Stone into custody and called to 


CONCLUSION 


273 

Bud Allison who came limping forward, his bine 
eyes glittering with defiance. 

Fair stooped and lifting Nance bodily carried 
her into the heart of the group. 

“Men,” he said, “here’s something more to 
add to our score against Sky Line. Look!” 

They looked in astonishment. 

“Great Scott!” said Bossick wonderingly, 
“it’s Miss Allison, ain’t it! What’s she doing 
here?” 

“That’s a question I’ll ask Lawrence 
Arnold,” said Fair in a voice like a blade, but 
the bearded man from the Upper Country spoke 
up promptly. 

“I think young Stone and Minnie Pine can 
answer that, since that is why we’re here. 
Speak, Stone.” 

The rider shook his head. 

“Let Minnie,” he said, “she was first to 
know about it.” 

All eyes turned to the Porno girl, among those 
of Lawrence Arnold, still holding in his arms 
the body of Kate Cathrew, and they were cruel 
as a hawk’s. 

“I listened,” said Minnie calmly, “I always 
listened when there was devil’s talk at Sky 
Line. I’ve heard much. This time the Sun 
Woman yonder stood in the Inner Room where 
they had brought her, and gave back in their 
teeth the words of the Boss and the Master. 




NAMELESS RIVER 


They wanted her to sign her mother’s name to 
a paper which would give to Kate Cathrew the 
homestead on Nameless-” 

“Great Scott!” said Bossick again. 

“She wouldn’t,” went on Minnie, “and so 
they gave her to Sud Provine to keep all night 
in Rainbow’s Pot, with Big Basford standing 
guard outside.” 

There was the sound of an indrawn breath 
from Fair. 

“We know Provine, Rod Stone and me,” con¬ 
tinued the girl, “and so we went to Cordova for 
help to get her out. We had to wait so long 
to get aw^ay from Sky Line-” 

“But they came, men,” cut in the bearded 
man, “don’t forget that in the final settlement. 
They dared Arnold and Cattle Kate to save a 
woman’s honor—and that’s no small thing.” 

“Shucks!” said Stone disgustedly, “what 
would any half-man do?” 

Fair stood Nance upon her feet. 

She raised her unspeakable head and glanced 
at the tense faces. 

“Where’s this Provine? Tell us, Nance,” 
said Fair still in that thin, hard voice. He 
hitched his holster a little farther forward on 
his thigh. 

“I don’t know,” she said. “I tore his face 
to ribbons—I’d have killed him if I could. He 
crawled that way.” 




CONCLUSION 


275 


She nodded toward the north. 

Fair loosed her gently and was turning away, 
when Bossick caught his arm. 

“Hold hard, Smith—Mr. Fair,” he said, “not 
in your condition. Jermyn—go see what you 
can find. In the meantime—there’s Big Bas- 
ford. The boy was quick-” 

Here Rod Stone broke in, speaking frankly. 

“I’d like to say men, that when young Alli¬ 
son killed Big Basford he got the man who 
threw his father down Rainbow Cliff and 
stretched the rope that lamed him. John Alli¬ 
son had found the only outside way to the rim 
and was looking down into the Pot here, when 
Basford went to meet him.” 

For a long moment there was silence. 

“It would seem to me,” said Bossick slowly, 
“that there has been a deal of justice done here 
this day—a very great deal of justice. It’s 
destiny.” 

Nance Allison looked up at him with a light 
in her blue eyes. 

“It’s the hand of God, Mr. Bossick,” she said 
gravely, “no less.” 

The rancher nodded. 

“Maybe,” he said, as Jermyn and several 
others who had accompanied him, came back 
across the basin with Sud Provine among them. 

One look at the man was sufficient. 

“I guess he’s had all that was coming to 
him for the present,” said Bossick grimly. 



27 6 NAMELESS RIVER 

“Take him along to the house. We’ll go gather 
in the rest.” 

And so, in the full day, with the risen sun 
touching all the tapestried slopes of Mystery 
with gold, Cattle Kate Cathrew went back to 
her stronghold under the tinted cliff—went in 
state with a retinue behind her. 

She had died as she had lived, spectacularly, 
and her turbulent soul should have been satis¬ 
fied. 

With her went one man who had loved her 
after his selfish fashion, another who would 
have crawled in the dust to kiss her feet, while 
a third, borne rolling limply on a saddle, fol¬ 
lowed after more closely than any other. 

The young cowboy from the Upper Country 
absent-mindedly rolled a cigarette. 

“She was worth it,” he said softly to the 
bearded man beside him, “in spite of all!” 

“Hell!” said the other, “look yonder! One 
square foot of his satin hide was worth her 
whole body! I always thought he’d get her, 
some time, some way. I’m going to dig up 
my last dollar an’ buy him from whoever owns 
him now.” 

Bluefire stood against the cliff, watching with 
interested eyes this strange procession passing. 


Another spring was smiling on the Deep 
Heart hills. 


CONCLUSION 


277 


On the broad slopes, the towering slants, the 
connifers sang their everlasting song, tuned by 
the little winds from the south. 

White clouds sailed the vault above leading 
their shadows for a little space upon the soft 
green country. 

On the wide brown flats by Nameless the 
young crops were springing, vigorous and safe, 
and some few herds browsed peacefully on the 
rugged range. 

In the doorway of the cabin by the river, 
Nance Fair sat with Sonny in her lap, watch¬ 
ing the slope beyond. 

“Won’t Brand be coming soon!” the child 
w T anted to know. “The Rainbow Cliff is shining, 
so it’s getting late.” 

“Soon—very soon, honey,” said Nance smil¬ 
ingly, ‘ ‘ I heard Dirk bark in the buck-brush 
yonder a little while ago.” 

In the room beyond Mrs. Allison rocked con¬ 
tentedly. 

“Nance,” she said, “you know this here car¬ 
pet always makes me think of the floor of the 
woods, somehow, with its brown an’ white. It’s 
so fresh an’ fair an’ soft.” 

“That’s why I got that warp,” said Nance 
happily, “I felt it would—and it does so. Yes, 
it does so. Run, Sonny—yonder’s Brand and 
Bud!” 

Brand and Bud, riding up from the waters of 


ns 


NAMELESS RIVER 


Nameless in the evening haze, Diamond and 
Buckskin drawing long breaths of satisfaction 
at the sight of home. 

Nance rose and waited for the lean dark man 
who swung down and came to her with Sonny 
on his shoulder. As he stooped to lay his lips 

to hers he looked long and tenderly into her 
blue eyes. 

“Heart of my heart !” he whispered. 

How^s all, Brand?” called the mother as 
she spread a cloth on the scoured table prepara¬ 
tory to “feeding her men-folk” as she phrased 
it. 

Brand Fair hung his hat on a nail and turned 
to the well as Bud came whistling up the path. 

Fine, Mammy,” he called back, “everything 
at Sky Line’s doing well. Bod and Minnie make 
things move, and I can trust them. The only 
thing that jars is old Josefa. who never fails 
to tell me that all half-breeds are fools, and that 
white men can’t be trusted. And then she bakes 
an extra pie for Rod and smiles at Minnie 
pioudly. Ves all’s well. All’s well on Name¬ 
less, eh, old-timer?” 

And swinging the boy once more to his 
shoulder, he followed young Bud in across the 
sill. 


THE END 















\ 








S€F 8 1928 

















































